Fragments: A Love Story
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: A love story told in 4 parts, one for each season. Alfred F. Jones was a simple man. Actually, Alfred F. Jones was a poor man. He just didn't know it. Arthur Kirkland was a cynic. Really, Arthur Kirkland was a romantic. He just refused to admit it.  USUK.
1. Part I: Fall

**Part I: Fall**

**1.**

"_Mon __cher_, if you need a loan, _tu __sais __bien_ that big brother is more than willing to lend you money," Francis leaned an elbow on the bar, casually watching the swishing wine slam against the fogged glass of a beer mug. "I know. No need to thank me. I am _trés_ generous. I know. I wouldn't even charge interest."

Arthur flinched at the feel of warm breathe against his ear. He looked over his shoulder—immediately circling the little black book with his arm to pull it closer to his chest. "Damn frog," he grumbled, "why don't you mind your own? – Can't you see I'm busy?"

Francis nodded, setting the mug on the bar. A tiny grin danced over his lips, the corners twisting higher with glee, "Oh, quite busy, yes. _Bien __sûr_. While you use work time to resolve one of your many existentialist crisis, I'll be over there. _Tu sais_, working… Mind me not. Take your time _not_ bartending or waitressing."

Arthur's cheeks tinted pink. Ridiculous allegations. Of course he was working. He looked down at the numbers in front of him, pursing his lips nervously before he scribbled the simple sum again.

He was working miracles with his mediocre salary.

**2.**

Alfred F. Jones was a simple man.

He lived in a one-room art studio, which he filled with a twin-sized bed, a modest television, and a plastic rack where he hung his assortment of jeans, hoodies and jackets. In a way, the tiny studio filled Alfred as well—with a strip of a kitchen with one functioning stovetop (out of two) where he could make burger, and an uncovered tub and shower in another corner of the room, along with a closet, which acted as a water closet.

Yes, Alfred was a simple man, of simple taste, of simple occupation.

He was the concierge for a high-class building owned by a pretentious far-removed relative that seldom admitted their resemblance. He earned a pittance, the result of free lodging, though he had little complaints thanks to income supplement from his role as the building dog-walker.

Actually, Alfred F. Jones was more than a simple man. He was a poor man.

But he didn't know it.

**3.**

"Arthur," a thick German voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up from his position behind the bar to find Ludwig's steel blue eyes flickering towards a drenched young man standing by the door. The tall blonde stared pensively at the menu pressed against the window.

Ludwig grunted.

Arthur grabbed a menu.

"Hello sir," he coughed into his hand, eyes glued to his shined shoes. "May I interest you in a booth seat? Perhaps one with a window-view?"

Blue eyes stared back at him from behind wire glasses. The blonde smiled at him sheepishly, cheeks tinted pink from the cold, "Uh, not sure that's such a good idea, actually. Mind if I steal a seat by the bar? – Just waiting for the rain to clear…"

Arthur blinked. It wasn't particularly protocol, but he'd never been one to follow protocol anyway. He looked at the torrent outside before his lips curved in understanding.

"Uh, certainly," he turned on his heel, "Right—right this way, then."

Besides, the restaurant wasn't even busy.

**4.**

The rain only seemed to be getting worse.

Arthur cleared a now empty table, pocketing the few bills of tip that had been left behind – tucked tightly between the ketchup bottle and a napkin. Almost hidden, really. He wondered if the patrons had meant to leave it after all. Or if, perhaps, they'd disliked him enough that they'd chosen to let their toddler play _hide-and-go-seek_ with the tip…

As he wiped the table, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Oh, Ludwig," he breathed out, relaxing for a moment before his boss pointed towards the young man tapping his foot against the floor of the bar. He'd been sipping at water for the past hour.

No words were exchanged between Arthur and Ludwig, but Arthur understood, especially when he caught a peek of the cook, Feliciano, staring at Arthur from the circular window of the kitchen door. The sweet Italian was holding a plate of pasta, pointing questioningly at the blonde by the bar.

"He's probably just a broke college student just waiting for the storm to pass," Arthur made his excuses. He shrugged, sure Feliciano might eventually intervene with his boyfriend for the sake of the poor young man.

"Then he should buy something if he will be taking bar space."

"It's not like he's taking a spot away from anyone," Arthur huffed, returning to his duty, "in case you haven't noticed, the place is pretty empty. Feli doesn't mind anyway."

Ludwig turned towards the kitchen. Arthur snorted his laughter when Feliciano immediately dipped down, curl bouncing as he hid from view.

The German grunted, "Protocol says—"

"Well, what do you want me to do? He's probably _broke_, Ludwig."

"Then you treat him."

Arthur blanched, whirling to look at his boss. "I beg your pardon…?"

"Treat him or throw him out."

Arthur looked over the German's shoulder towards the young man, finally dry and smiling happily as he flicked his thumb over his bendy straw. Biting his bottom lip, Arthur sighed.

The bills in his pocket burned.

"Arthur, I said—"

"Yes, yes, I heard you. Stop your yelling. _I__'__ll _deal with it."

**5.**

"Oi," he leaned against the tabletop of the bar, sliding with perfect suavity and just the right pinch of annoyance next to the young blonde, who geared his large blue eyes at him, "not that you've been much of an annoyance, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to either order or leave."

The level of bluntness seemed to catch the young man off guard.

"Oh," he mouthed, still gaping a bit before pushing away from the bar – one hand pressed tightly against the wood — "uh, yeah, I guess I should be on my way now. I lost track of time, I think. Sorry, uh… oh, you have a nametag, cool. Arthur." He chuckled, scratching at the nape of his neck. "Thanks for the water," he shrugged on his bomber jacket, slipping on a thick hood.

Arthur's mouth dried when he saw the crisp dollar bills stacked neatly underneath some coins.

_Well, wasn't someone a generous stranger._

**6.**

"You didn't have to do that," the young American, whom Arthur soon came to know as Alfred, stuffed his hands into his pocket as he crowded underneath the Englishman's umbrella. "It was your tip."

"To be honest," Arthur licked his dry lips, kicking at a puddle to avoid complaining over the biting winds, "I used my employee discount. Fifty percent off food. The fries came down to a dollar and ten."

_So I still took some money home._

His ears burned with embarrassment. He wondered if Alfred was judging him – the lad was probably from some well-to-do family, probably a college student, maybe an eccentric? – Yes, perhaps the kind that liked to just relax by empty bars, drinking water, thinking about life and leaving behind generous tips as a _memento_…

Alfred whistled, obviously impressed. "Fifty percent off food? Man. That's pretty sweet. You must be living it up!"

Arthur shrugged, looking away nervously towards a dim lamppost. He chuckled, thinking perhaps his companion was making light for his sake, "well, Italian food certainly beats starving."

"Oh, it was an Italian restaurant, was it?"

Arthur blinked. He stopped cold. "You didn't even read the establishment sign? – _Pasta_. What else could it have been?"

Alfred shrugged. "I guess I never really intended on buying anything so I didn't check. I just wanted out of the rain. To be honest, allI had was what I gave you…"

_In tips. _

There wasn't a strand of shame trickling in blinding red behind the words. The connotation was clear, crisp, and yet, there wasn't a trickle of apology in the lad's statement. Instead, there was a smile upon his lips, unabashed and unrestrained.

Arthur felt the reality of the moment slowly seep into him again, sobering him along with the cold. He didn't know quite what to say, almost too afraid the judgment would seep into his voice. So he remained silent.

**7.**

They'd taken the long way—around the park, between the thickest trees where the air was thick with humidity and they could feel the stains of rain stick to their face.

Alfred hummed a silly tune, sometimes stealing peeks at Arthur, whose eyebrows furrowed close together in confusion as he tried to figure out the right way to the main street.

"Bloody hell, how can you not remember the fastest way to get to your own house? I know we cut through a bad part of town, but _still_. You must somehow remember the way."

Alfred smiled, "I don't know. I guess I just have a bad memory?"

_Perhaps a selective memory…_

" 'Sides, we're having fun, aren't we?" he stretched his arms, happy that the rain had stopped. "Keep telling me about England!"

"Damn git," Arthur muttered, huffing as they walked in another circle yet again.

**8.**

Sometimes Arthur would sneak peeks at Alfred's profile along the way.

He'd let his eyes linger carefully over the strong jawline and the high cheekbones and the plump lips, painting a fantasy in his mind that was perhaps more dangerous than he'd ever admit.

He'd find himself trying to tear his gaze away, pretending that the flush inking from his neck to his cheeks was thanks to the cold, maybe even attributed to the anger of being lost with a complete stranger in a posh part of town, far and remote from his lower-income neighborhood. But no matter how he tried, he always turned just in time to catch the American's smile.

And his stomach would dip, and he'd let himself try to match the shade of Alfred's eyes to a far-off star.

**9.**

"So, uh, yeah, thanks for walking me home," Alfred stared behind him at the tall gray building, "even if it took a couple hours and stuff."

"Yes, well, might not have been so long if you'd known the way."

"Yeah, but it was fun anyway. Thanks again, Arthur."

"I-It's not like I did it because I liked your company or anything," Arthur huffed, staring at his shoes, too ashamed to look at Alfred now that he'd confirmed his fears. The lad was probably just eccentric, forgotten his wallet home, perhaps, or something or other because the building with its precious lighting and well-kept grounds belied the secret of its wealth. "I just didn't want you bothering people in the park as you wandered aimlessly for hours. Hopefully you've learned a valuable lesson and will write directions to your house from now on."

"Not likely. But I probably remember how to get to your restaurant, you know, in case I get lost again," he grinned, turning to disappear into the building.

"Oi! That's not…" Arthur rolled his eyes, standing in front of the closed door for a few seconds, "my restaurant. I'd have named it _Fish __and __Chips_, not _Pasta_. Stupid git, not recognizing I have standards."

**10.**

Arthur Kirkland was a cynical man.

He lived alone in a small apartment with a balcony, which he replenished with hardy ivy and plants, a boxed radio, and a large collection of mahogany shelves where he stored his large assortment of old college math, economics and philosophy texts. In a way, the small apartment worked to replenish Arthur as well—with a fireplace to keep him warm during weeks of rain and a fire department a block away for days when he ventured to cook, along with a fire-escape outside the kitchen, too.

Yes, Arthur Kirkland was a cynical man, the kind to always await the worst, and perhaps be prepared for it, too.

He worked long shifts for little pay at an expensive restaurant in a bourgeois part of town, where customers rarely admitted to their economic reality and tended to leave behind poor tips in response to high prices. He scraped by with hard planning, perhaps a pinch of paranoia, and the help of a black book—his budgeting agenda, which he was sure always ate numbers for lunch. But he made it work, happy to keep working to keep both his collection of romance novels and unicorns well-stocked and dry under his bed...

... because Arthur Kirkland, for all his cynicism, was a romantic at heart. Quite a romantic really—a gentleman with Victorian sensibilities, in fact.

He just refused to admit it.


	2. Part II: Winter

**Author Note:** This note has been added a bit belatedly, I'm afraid. Could I ask that anyone reading this please change the 'story width' to 1/2 whenever you read this story? You can change it back for your other stories; just, for this story, changing the width to 1/2 adds the proper format to any chapter for _Fragments_. Look to the top right-hand corner to do this. Many thanks in advanced if you do this. I really appreciate it. ^^

**Part II: Winter**

**1.**

Five years ago, Alfred F. Jones had been a budding genius with an ego that frightened a majority of his physics professors. He'd had a girlfriend, a full-ride scholarship, and a plan to win a Nicholson Medal for Human Outreach. He'd wanted to leave to Oxford for his Master's and PhD, and live the rest of his life as a human factory: churning out books on the theoretical landscape of physics and living on the fuel generated from overcooked hamburgers at McDonalds.

He'd wanted to be known for pithy quotes verging on the poetic, like 'You are all stardust. You couldn't be here if stars hadn't exploded.' Never mind someone had already said _that_.

The only question that had loomed in his mind was whether he'd be able to retain his love of Mickey Ds in Oxford, or if he'd be forced to betray his soul mate for Burger King. But he'd know soon enough. He had plans to study abroad there, which is why he couldn't delay his studies.

So it was that with only this in mind he tackled his first year in college—finishing the only two gen-eds he'd needed before arriving at his generic Northern Ivy League University, and then immersing himself full-time into his other love: physics.

**2. **

Arthur doesn't think Alfred is particularly smart.

It's not really important. Or Arthur pretends it doesn't bother him, at least.

They're friends anyway.

And Arthur has always liked his friends impressionable.

So he takes the hand of the nearest girl and pulls her to the dance floor, hips brushing close together as she laughs into her hand.

His friends, Elizabeta and Francis, whistle, cheering him on.

**3. **

Five years ago, Arthur Kirkland had been an impressionable young writer with dreams and talent that put stars in most of his tutor's eyes. He'd graduated an Oxford undergraduate in Trinity College, studying mathematics, economics, and philosophy. He'd had different plans _then_. He'd wanted to leave Oxford for the Continent, and live the rest of his life married to a poem: giving birth to novels on the human condition and living from city to city like an indecisive butterfly flirting with flowers.

He'd wanted to be known for a single image, like Albert Camus in his black coat and suit, smoking a flickering cigarette in the comforts of winter. Never mind it wouldn't have been very original.

The only question that had loomed in his mind was whether he'd be able to bury the tears and beer pints he'd downed during his undergraduate years in search for personal growth in growth models, or if he'd be forced to live with the assumptions that he'd failed, failed so badly that he'd had to betray numbers with words. But he'd know soon enough. He had already paid both battels and tuition for his Master's in Creative Writing, and he couldn't turn back.

So it was that with only this in mind he tackled his first term as an Oxford _graduate_ student—finishing a few classes before deciding that he needed to get the _hell_ out of there, and leaving on the first half-empty plane to America with two bags: one full of clothes, and one full of old textbooks.

**4. **

Alfred thinks Arthur is beautiful, even if Arthur might not be particularly interested in _him_.

It's not really important, anyway. Alfred is unlikely to garner enough courage to make a move.

Not in a bar. Even if it _is_ a gay bar.

But something changes in between the time Arthur is sitting next to him, and the distance between Arthur's hips and his dance partner's in the middle of Justin Timberlake's _Sexy Back_ to make Alfred react and speed in a beeline in the direction of the half-drunk Brit.

Alfred knows the girl isn't a threat; she has a girlfriend _and_ a boyfriend, and is happy in her polyamorous love story. She's like a beautifully skewed line, while Arthur and Alfred are intercepting vectors.

Still, when _To Be Real_ comes blasting out of the speakers, he joins in the boisterous dance party now taking place between the three of them, laughing alongside Arthur, who seems to find his shuffling feet rather amusing.

Before long they're touching, and lingering, and spinning. They're just spinning. Until he's so dizzy he thinks he might be sick, and throw-up his heart at Arthur's feet.

**5. **

Three years ago, Alfred was abroad.

That's when it began. During his third year of college.

He didn't notice it at first, perhaps in the excitement of wandering down Parks Road, and running his fingertips against the gate bars that separate Oxford's park from the street. Maybe it was the parties—had he been partying too hard? Well, he'd certainly been working too hard.

But he could tell it was getting worse when after four months, his fresher's flu continued and snowballed into mass and persistent fatigue, the like was accompanied with throbbing muscles and pinching joints. Sometimes he would bump into the walls of Clarendon Lab, pretending he'd had too much to drink the night before.

He battled through a sore throat, but after a while he found the visual disturbances and migraines too much to deal with on his own, especially when he almost fainted during a bus ride back to his dorm room because his legs were too weak to carry him back.

The cough was particularly worrisome, and when he began to break out into hives whenever he ate dairy, and felt wretched nausea at the sight of a burger, well, he knew something was wrong.

So he sought out a doctor.

He skipped a tutorial session with his favorite professor, feeling guilty all the while his stomach churned and raked in pains and cramps.

**6. **

Arthur admits to himself that he's been attracted to Alfred for a while when he feels finger pads brush rapidly over the side of his hip, above the corner of his stomach, right where his rib meets plush skin. He decides that he likes the feel of Alfred's arm as it encircles his waist, bringing the edge of their hips touching at an angle, a perfect angle.

He decides then that he's been spending a lot of time lying to himself and that all those nights Alfred spent _not ordering_ at the restaurant were evenings he spent daydreaming, and laughing when he didn't need to, and letting his hand linger longer than necessary on the blue-eyed blonde's arm. Because he's liked Alfred for a while. Maybe more than a while.

But he wasn't going to make the first move. Even if he had imagined it.

And it's perfect, the way Alfred's free hand reaches up to cup his nape—a hand so large that it is able to slide carefully underneath his jaw to pull him effortlessly into a kiss.

Arthur lets his hand fall to the juncture of his rib, pressing Alfred's hand, squeezing it to keep it there. Because he can admit he likes the way Alfred touches him.

From the catcalling and whistles all around then, he can tell everyone else likes it, too.

**7. **

Three years ago, Arthur was home.

That's when he knew it. During his third year in America.

He didn't notice it at first, perhaps in the exotic excitement of traveling from city to city, lingering in street corners with half-lit cigarettes before rushing off to underground nightclubs where he hung out with musicians with weird hair colors and even stranger tastes in music. Maybe it was the fatigue? Yeah, he'd been partying too hard, not writing enough, not eating enough.

But he could tell he was growing restless when after so many years he walked into a restaurant owned by an old college friend he'd met during his time studying abroad, Feliciano, and decided to take the job offered to him as a bartender. He'd promised himself it would only be temporary. Sometimes he would even bring out a notepad, pretending to scribble poetry when he was actually spewing formulas.

He battled through the initial withdrawal, but after a while found that he didn't like bars or nightclubs that much anyway, especially when he threw up inside a girl's purse on his way back to the city center one night.

The roommate situation especially bothered him, and when he began to feel paranoia seep into his daily existence whenever he perused through his fridge and found his food products half-eaten or already opened, well, he knew it was time to move out.

So he got an apartment.

He skipped work for a day, feeling guilty when he called home and asked his father to loan him some money. Not a lot. Just enough for the down payment.

**8. **

Arthur likes dating Alfred.

He likes it because dating Alfred doesn't feel like dating _himself_. Arthur has a history of dating people like himself.

To Arthur, Alfred is like a bouncing light. He is like an excitable teenager lost in the rapid changing processes of life—he is vibrant and uncultured, the result of rejecting every vapidity of society Arthur probably ever accepted blindly. Arthur assumes rejecting civility includes books and college. He assumes a lot, actually, like that Alfred _must _like simple, and easy things.

Perhaps he is right.

Alfred seems opposed to talk about hard subjects or controversial topics. He makes fun of Arthur for using the complicated strings of letters he calls words—_dictionary _words that Arthur is always bound to sprinkle over his sentences.

Sometimes when they walk down the park, hands clasped together, wintry air slapping at their red cheeks, Arthur likes to tell Alfred stories about Oxford—about the days he'd skip lectures to wander inside the park, or get lost in The Bod. And how he'd always, always make sure to stick his tongue out at the Physics Department…

Alfred tends to laugh, making sure to wrap his arms around Arthur. Sometimes, he presses his forehead against the back of Arthur's neck, breath erratic as it ruffles over his nape, until Arthur can feel the wincing.

It is in those moments that Arthur learns that Alfred has debilitating migraines that hit him like lightning and leave him breathless, sick, sometimes clutching his stomach, but these are rare, though they seem to happen often when he mentions his days in Oxford. So he stops mentioning them, letting the memories get lost in the vacant spaces of his past.

Instead, he pities his love—pities him for his simplicity, for being trapped in America, for knowing nothing else, and makes it a point to turn when Alfred looks to be in pain and settles his fingertips on the side of Alfred's temples. Because he is there now. And he wants to make sure Alfred knows he has him.

He massages them softly in circles, thinking to himself, "oh my poor, poor, beautiful boy. So simple. So free. My beautiful Alfred."

And Alfred typically smiles at him. "I'm alright, babe," he'll say, taking both Arthur's hands to kiss his knuckles.

But Arthur, being typical Arthur, will pull his hands back, sputtering midst his blush before returning to his massage. "You're so beautiful, poppet," he usually says, admiring the perfect white teeth of his boyfriend.

And he knows that in his hands, he holds the most beautiful man in the world, ignoring that he doesn't know he also holds the most brilliant mind to never have blossomed at his fingertips.

**9. **

Two years ago, Alfred quit college.

"It's not fair! I had plans," he yells at the Doctor, unable to feel and move half his face. One part of his smile now lies frozen, the result of spasms in his cheek muscles. He feels his mother's trembling hands clasped on his shoulders, trying to hold him back, but all he wants to do is hold his father's hand. He turns to his mother, "I had plans."

"I know you did, sweetheart," she repeats to him, squeezing his hand, "you _have_ plans."

"There's something that can be done, right, Doctor?" Alfred's father finally turns away from the wall.

Alfred bites his bottom lip.

"This isn't something that we are doing to you, Alfred," the Doctor tries to explain, sympathetic even when put off by the young man's outburst. He seems unlikely to ever answer the question posed by Alfred's father. "This is something that has happened, and we're doing everything we can to fully understand the implications."

"I, I just won an award. I have built a non-profit. I have… I have perfect grades," Alfred tries, hiccupping all the while, but he finds that he can barely get half his words out underneath the extra weight of unresponsive face muscles. His chest is constricting, making him feel like he can't breathe, and he would complain except the pain is a bit too much to bear.

"Breathe, darling," his mother blinks at few tears away, "it's just a panic attack. It's going to be okay, Alfred. It's going to be okay."

"There's therapy. With some rest and will from you, you'll be back to normal."

Alfred can only think of his plans, of Oxford, which he now feels he'll never see again. He can only think of the lives he won't change, the things he'll never say, the people that will never quote him… all the things he still had to learn, all the brilliance, the light, gone like a smudged out blur on a window. So clear. So superficial.

"There's no reason why you can't meet every single one of your goals, Alfred," the Doctor tries to be kind, supportive.

But Alfred feels like he's a fish out of water, like he's become asthmatic overnight. There's something punching at his stomach, making him want to cry until he's knocked out, but he's too busy trying to breathe through his nose, because breathing through his mouth is what he wants to do, but he knows it's just making him wheeze and gag. And if it wasn't because he's familiar with panic attacks, well, he'd think he was dying. He reminds himself he's not. So long as he's breathing, even if he can't feel the air coming through, he won't.

"It's just going to take a little more time than you expected."

Alfred isn't stupid.

He knows he's lying to him. He wishes now he'd studied neuroscience instead of physics. He wants to know what broke in his brain that he can't concentrate, can't think, can't remember what he read the night before, or that formula he just completed. Chronic Fatigue Disorder? The Doctor doesn't even know. Before they can make a proper diagnosis it will be years. But if it was? If it was something he can't cure with pills, something he can't return from intact?—It's not supposed to be this bad. Right? Not enough to cause a rupture in his brain like this. There has to be another name, something more concrete that he can touch, reach about it, see studies and graphs and…

"We'll keep an eye out on those seizures. For now you'll have to leave college. Just for a while. But you'll be back."

Alfred isn't so sure.

He's too exhausted to complain, though.

**10. **

Alfred likes dating Arthur.

He likes it because dating Arthur feels natural, like he's dating his _old_ self. Alfred has a short history of feeling unnatural, like he's stuck in a body that he no longer owns.

"Hey babe," he tends to say, kissing Arthur's bright red cheek as they walk out of the restaurant. Feliciano always likes to offer Alfred some pasta. He usually accepts, but this time he declines. He sees something off about Arthur. "Everything alright?"

Arthur nods and sniffs. "Of course. Everything's fine," he pecks Alfred's lips, then pecks them again, just because he can. Alfred reciprocates by taking hold of Arthur's chin and pulling him into a long, lingering kiss that warms their skin with tingling vibrations. "I love you."

"Love you, too."

They walk side by side, together. The cold is inspiring, and Arthur leans closer, trying to lace his arm with Alfred's.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Arthur asks, the twinkle in his eyes almost inviting.

Alfred shrugs. "Oh, hmm, I don't know. I thought you should pick tonight. Heard there's a late-night exhibit—"

"We've been dating for a while now, haven't we, Alfred?"

There's coyness in Arthur's tone that Alfred doesn't pick up on at first. When he does, though, his eyes widen.

"Y—yeah, I suppose so…"

"And I haven't tried to take you home, have I? Not once?"

"No. No, you… haven't tried…"

Arthur nods, still walking. He clears his throat once, hiding his face by ducking under his tightly laced scarf. "And you wouldn't mind if I tried tonight, love?"

Alfred's lips break into a grin. It's instantaneous, spontaneous. "Not one bit, Artie."

"Brilliant then."

"Awesome."

Arthur leans close to Alfred's face, nostrils barely flaring. "My place, then? It's closer."

**11. **

Two years ago, Arthur almost married.

"T—that bastard," he sobs into a half-empty glass of scotch. Francis leans on his elbows, watching him from the other side of the bar. "Antonio better never show his face around here again, or I swear I will pummel his face in."

"Mais, Arthur, that's not very fair, is it? Antonio is _not_ his brother."

"He deserves it for setting us up. Now get me another drink!"

Francis sighs then, and for once, does as he's told.

Arthur and Francis never speak of the almost-wedding again. It's not like anyone except Arthur really knows what happened. All Francis knows is that Arthur doesn't need reminding: for that he had the left-over boat collection from Spain that he burned in his own tub, almost setting his entire apartment on fire.

(Arthur was later surprised to find that the boat collection didn't actually belong to Antonio's Portuguese half-brother, but that they belonged to Antonio, who had been crying over his lost collection ever since his three-year-old sibling stole them from his room.)

He has the old Scottish Fold cat: Teacup. And he has Antonio.

Though, to be fair, Antonio can't really help talking about his family during work, especially his brother, whom he rarely speaks to anyway.

**12. **

Alfred admits to himself that he's been lusting after Arthur for a while when he feels fingers dip inside his open pants and puckered underwear to graze at his skin, beneath his navel, right at the juncture of his legs were a few curls of blonde hair pool together. He decides he likes the feel of Arthur's breathe against his neck as he slips out his tongue to lick the outer shell of his ear.

He decides he's been spending a lot of time denying himself, and that all those nights Alfred walked Arthur home were evenings he'd spent fantasizing and kissing the Brit just a little longer than he needed to, and letting his hand dip a bit lower down his back than was necessary because he had always hoped to be asked inside. Because he'd _wanted_ Arthur for a while. Maybe always.

But he wasn't going to make the first move. Even if he had imagined it.

And now it's perfect, the way their breaths and bodies mold together—then collapse in a heap of arms and legs, tangled and tired.

Alfred lets his lips fall to the juncture of Arthur's collarbone, sucking and swirling his tongue on the spot. Because he can admit he likes the way Arthur sighs underneath him.

From the way Arthur's toes seem to curl inward, he can tell the Englishman likes it, too.

**13. **

A week later, Alfred decides Arthur should meet his friends.

It hits him while walking the dogs, because he's at a dog park, and seeing all the little mutts wagging their tails and smiling brightly and doing all sorts of things like playing chase the ball or chase the stick reminds him that he has friends. And he's neglected them.

He walks home in silence, returns the dogs to their owners, and then enters his own empty flat.

He crawls on his knees, bringing from under his bed an old wooden crate, which he opens carefully, letting his fingers run over the chipped wood. And, inside, he finds old textbooks.

It's been months since he's seen his friends, but maybe now it's time.

That night he cancels a date with Arthur. He stays home and sighs, watching the Big Bang Theory with a peculiar desire to punch the television screen.

The next day when he walks Arthur home, he doesn't tell Arthur a thing.

**14. **

A week later, Arthur decides Alfred must be ashamed of him.

"You haven't, like, even met his friends? That's, like, super sad and more than a little sketch. I mean, if Liet had ever done that to me, I would've dumped him."

"Ve~ maybe he doesn't have friends?" Feliciano interrupted, bringing out the giant plate of pasta he usually shared with everyone during lunchtime. "Ludwig, do you think Alfred doesn't have friends?"

"Or, maybe, _c'est possible que _Alfred is ashamed of our resident Brit?" Francis adds his own comment with a smirk.

"Shut it, frog!" Arthur groans into his hands, hiding his face between them. "I don't need to meet his friends. I'm not dating Alfred's friends. I'm dating Alfred."

"Have you at least been to his house?" Elizabeta asked, eyes twinkling in fantasy, "Is it nice? Did you two have sex? Give us all the details!"

When Arthur blanches, suddenly aware of the fact that he's never even seen where Alfred lives, everyone returns his look of despair with pity. Some even tisk or moan their disappointment.

"Not even his house? Like, this is seriously desperate. I mean, what if he's like married with kids and stuff? Oh my god. He's two-timing you!"

"Ve~ Alfred wouldn't do that to Arthur, right _fratello_?"

"Don't bring me into this. I don't care about the bastard's life," Romano yells from the kitchen, a tomato flying to hit Ludwig right in the eye. It rolls down his skin, spluttering all over the man's numbers and calculator. The German simply sighs, eye twitching as he brings out a new sheet of clean paper to start crunching numbers again.

Arthur turns to Elizabeta. "You don't think he's…?"

"No," she laughs nervously, "no, I mean, of course not. Alfred seems like he's really into you, Arthur."

Francis shrugs, "If you ask big brother—"

"I didn't," Arthur pouts, grabbing at a fork to stab at the pasta plate.

"If you _had_," Francis clears his throat, "I'd say you should just ask him directly. Surely he has a reason, _non_? And if he doesn't, then he's ashamed of you and you should dump him and then big brother will be here waiting for you with a new bottle of wine and open arms!"

"And I'll be right here with my pan," Elizabeta smirks, "just in case _big brother_ gets a little too friendly."

"Alfred's nice," Feliciano muses, slurping his pasta, "he likes my pasta. Ve~ I'm sure he loves Arthur, too."

No one quite understands the connection between Arthur and pasta, but no one pays much attention either.

"Thanks, everyone," Arthur sighs, grabbing for the bottle of scotch.

That night, Alfred cancels a date. Arthur is surprised, a bit hurt, but he doesn't tell Alfred a thing.

**15. **

It's a particularly frigid night when Alfred pulls Arthur into a quaint little tavern; the like makes him think of Scotland. That alone gives Arthur a bad feeling in his gut. He's never been fond of Scotland.

He finds the place packed, and he's ready to ask Alfred they leave, but already Alfred is tugging him by the elbow towards an occupied table. And Arthur thinks his stomach might have flipped entirely. He stands awkwardly behind Alfred, waiting.

"Guys, this is Arthur," Alfred beams, pulling Arthur forward. "Artie, this is Kiku, Yao, Ivan, and Matt. They're some old college buddies of mine. Some are just here for the weekend."

Arthur nods curtly, shaking hands. He notices surprised that they all have the airs of being very bright—or at least look it. He spends time letting his gaze linger over each one. Yao is particularly striking, dark ebony hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that contrasts beautifully against his skin. The Chinese stares back at him from his square, posh glasses. Ivan makes him think of a hipster, scarf tight around his neck.

"Nice to meet you, comrade," Ivan almost crushes his hand. "Alfred never mentioned you."

Alfred winces just seeing their hands touch. Arthur turns to look at Alfred. He's frowning.

"Uh, yeah, well it was a surprise," Alfred scratches the back of his neck, leading Arthur to Kiku. "My best bud, Kiku."

Kiku nods politely, "pleasure to meet you."

"And this is Matthew! My cousin."

Arthur blinks, almost reverently taking Matthew's hand. "Oh, cousin. Well, it's very nice to meet you Matthew."

"Same," Matthew grins, "unlike the others, I've actually heard lots about you. So did half the family during Christmas."

"Is that right?" Arthur chuckles, turning to his red-faced boyfriend, "We didn't start make things official until New Year's."

"Yeah, well," Alfred coughs into his hand. "Drinks, yeah? Refills? Why don't you all start getting to know each other? I'm gonna get Artie and me a drink. Beer, babe?"

"Tea, if you can find some, actually."

"Another _White Russian_, comrade?" Ivan dumps his empty glass on Alfred's arms, waving him off. "Bal'shoye spaseeba."

**16. **

Arthur always thought Alfred was rich.

His friends and cousin seemed to confirm this.

Matthew was in the Canadian petroleum industry. He hadn't said much after that, other than he wasn't very fond of his job, and was now being groomed for business management of the family company.

Yao was an engineer. He'd graduated and promptly returned to China, where his parents had strong bureaucratic connections that enabled him to become the young assistant to some powerful engineers for some expensive government projects.

Kiku had remained in the US after college. He was particularly intrigued by nuclear power. Arthur had felt completely lost when Kiku had started talking rather bashfully about the RIKEN accelerator in Japan. His father was a physicist—and he'd helped in the creation of the world's strongest particle accelerator.

"Usable beam of uranium ions. It was a very exciting discovery in 2006. Shaped my entire perception of what I wanted to do with my life."

Ivan had simply shaken his head, waiting for some more vodka, which Alfred had once again offered to go get—on Ivan's tab, of course.

But_ uranium_ was the last thing Arthur had heard before Alfred had pressed a dry kiss over his cheek and sat down next to him. Almost instantly, Kiku froze up and pursed his lips.

"What's exciting?" Alfred asked, throwing the bottle at Ivan.

Now, Arthur had learned Ivan was just rich. He'd studied physics, too, but no one really knew what he did now, other than constantly travel to China. Or so Matthew had told Arthur between whispers when Ivan had left for the bathroom and Yao had followed soon after.

"Kiku was telling me about the RIKEN accelerator," Arthur smiled, fixing Alfred's collar. "I'm afraid I barely understood half of it, though. Except for some of the math. I understood that."

Alfred's eyes seemed to have glossed over. Yao noted it with tact, turning to Arthur.

"Oh?" Yao blinked, feigning interest. "What do you do, Arthur?"

Arthur blushed. "Oh, well, I. I'm in between jobs at the moment, working at a restaurant bartending. Thinking of going back to school, though. Getting my Master's and perhaps a PhD in economics."

"Bartending, aru?" Yao turned to Kiku. "Sounds like we should have gone to Arthur's."

Alfred laughed, encircling Arthur's waist. "He makes some strong drinks for sure."

"We'll need to try that out at the next family reunion."

"School. Yes. I am also thinking of returning to school." Ivan nodded. "A smart decision, comrade. The job market is tough. My family company is always expanding, though, always looking for good economists. Give me a call when you have your diploma."

Arthur smiled appreciatively, "thanks. I—I will."

"And what of you, Alfred, plans for school?" Ivan continued, ignoring the way Yao seemed to dig his nails into his arm.

"No."

"But surely you are okay now?" Ivan pushed. Matthew seemed ready to lurch for the Russian's throat. "No more brain problems. Alfred can return to school."

"No. N-O. No," Alfred looked away, taking hold of Arthur's hand. "I'm fine without school. I don't need books, or formulas, or none of those things. I'm fine. Really guys. It's cool. I'm happy you all did what you were supposed to, but don't push that stuff on me. I'm good now. I've found something better than physics."

"Arthur," Matthew chirped, almost excited by the discovery his cousin was in love. "That's great. That's awesome, Alfred."

Arthur, though, couldn't stop blushing. "What? _Me_?"

Kiku turned to his watch, a bitter upturned pout on his lips. "It is late. I must make my excuses. My plane leaves in the morning."

"That's right. You're visiting your Dad for all of spring," Alfred sighed, "give him my best, man."

"I will. He will be happy to hear from you."

"Stop by China on your way back," Yao elbowed his friend, "I will be happy to host you."

"I will stop by, too," Ivan added. "Perhaps Matthew and Alfred can also come. It will be like our second year of college."

Arthur had always thought Alfred was simple, that he'd never left America, that he'd always been of uncomplicated tastes and acquaintances. Now he wasn't sure if he knew much about Alfred at all.

Such were his thoughts as everyone decided to call it a night. He watched Alfred cryptically, almost as if waiting for his boyfriend to signal that he was any more than what he'd always been to Arthur—his beautiful, simple, uncomplicated, free boy. But between whispers and jokes and handshakes Arthur began to see a life form in the interactions: a life he'd never known, a life he'd never understand.

He waited for Alfred outside, cigarette shaking in his hand as he watched Yao and Ivan get in one car, Kiku hail a taxi, and Alfred and Matthew walk out together, shoving each other playfully.

"Arthur, you okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, of course, love. Just wanted to blow a fag is all."

"Okay, well, Matthew is staying at my place, so mind if we head over there first before I walk you over to yours?"

Arthur gulped, hands already dripping with sweat. He took one long drag of his cigarette. "Sure."

**17. **

Alfred didn't know Arthur thought he was rich.

For that matter, Alfred had never felt particularly poor, so who was he to contend that he wasn't somehow rich? After all, he lived in a posh apartment building, in a nice neighborhood, and walked some very expensive dogs.

He had no complaints.

And, he had a beautiful boyfriend.

But when they reached his door and Arthur grew silent, he began to wonder if something was wrong, if maybe his boyfriend was feeling ill.

Matthew, too, grew tense.

"Artie, are you sure you're okay?" Alfred tried one more time.

"Yes, yes, of course."

Matthew shrugged, shoving his cousin to open the door. "Come on already. I'd like to use the toilet."

"Haha, just don't break it! – Uncle Sam didn't think it was funny when you told him you did it on purpose."

And then the door opened, and Arthur was inside, and Alfred was asking him if he was okay because he'd grown catatonic and proceeded to blink, blink, and blink as if he was taking quick snapshots of everything in the room. Everything. Or nothing.

"Babe, you alright?"

Arthur turned to Alfred, distress apparent all over his face as he pressed his hands to Alfred's cheeks. His fingers slowly began to travel to the American's temples, massaging them gently in small circles. "Oh, my beautiful, poor boy…" he'd whispered, not aware he'd said it aloud. He was soon biting his lip before bringing Alfred's head forward to kiss his forehead.

And somehow, Alfred missed the memo that nothing could ever be the same again.

Without knowing it, he'd now let Arthur _in_.


	3. Part III: Spring

**Part III:** Spring

**1.**

Arthur doesn't like it when Alfred visits him at work.

It tends to give Elizabeta the opportunity to leave her tables unattended and chum up to Alfred in an effort to earn some answers to relatively awkward questions – some of which Arthur is surprised Alfred can even answer with a smile. If Arthur is honest with himself, he's really just surprised Alfred is willing to answer Elizabeta's questions, period.

"So, you have a schedule?" she asks, bribing Alfred with another burger. She slides carefully into the seat next to him, leaning her arm on the bar.

"Hmm," Alfred replies, already sliding off the top bun of the burger to dump a mountain of ketchup. Arthur considered Alfred an expert when it came to making sure condiments left their intended packages – and he could still remember one of their early dates, during which Alfred had expertly explained how to get ketchup out of a bottle, _properly._ Because surely a gentleman such as Arthur should have known, but hadn't until he'd met a certain American mystery. "Not a schedule, really, so much as Artie seems to have a Sherlock kink and I didn't really want to compete with a fictional character, y'know? So for a time we weren't, uh, yeah, regularly on Sundays because, yeah. And then it became routine and ever since we just don't. On Sundays."

"But every other day is fair game?" she asks, a bright twinkle in her eye. When Ludwig walks by on his way to the backroom, she grabs for a napkin, pretending to clean at a speck of mayonnaise on the countertop.

Alfred blinks, trying not to fall off the booth he was sitting on as he leaned back. He slurps his soda, loudly, "Uh, not really. I volunteer over at the animal shelter on Wednesdays. And then I like to hike up to some of the colleges in the area on Thursdays for the science speaker series. I drag Arthur along sometimes, but he gets bored so he goes to this cat owners meeting, or something. I just got two new kittens – Sazzles and Scone – so he told me he takes them to that. Oh, and on Mondays Arthur has his knitting club, which is totally not geeky and stuff because he makes me awesome sweaters."

Arthur blushes from behind the counter, watching his boyfriend pick at the jumper he'd knitted a few weeks ago. He stares at some of the uneven stitching near the cuffs, shaking his head.

"_So_," Elizabeta seemed to ponder his response, "Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays? That's _it_?"

"We're not bloody teenagers, much less rabbits, Elizabeta," Arthur grunts, almost throwing a batch of fries in front of Alfred, who immediately picks up the Ketchup bottle, again. Feliciano watches from the safety of his kitchen to make sure Alfred _still_ likes his food. It has, after all, been some weeks since Alfred was last in the restaurant. But it gets Arthur's mind going...

There are many things Arthur will typically never understand – Feliciano's obsession with approval from _anyone_ over _anything_ related to food is one of them, and maybe Alfred's love affair with condiments is another.

"Fries! This is awesome! Thanks, Feli!"

The Italian man seems content with the recognition and slithers away again, probably in search of his German business partner. Assuming Gilbert hadn't dropped by again and was pestering his brother for a loan.

Sighing, Arthur admitted with a few curses that he couldn't understand what he'd seen in Alfred – especially when he took a look at some of his table manners. He grabbed a napkin, wiping gently at Alfred's cheek. "Three times a week is more than enough," he muttered, trying to hide his blushing face. "Eat properly, git. You're missing your mouth."

"_Every_ week?"

Alfred laughs, pulling away from Arthur much like a young babe might forcefully pull away from his mother. "Man, you're really into this, huh? – When does your project finish anyway?"

Arthur blinks, turning to Elizabeta, who seemed to have suddenly acquired a twitch near the corner of her lip. "Project?"

Elizabeta chuckles, "P—Project, yes! My joint journalism and psych project, remember? Uh, it finishes… soon. Soon." She clears her throat, returning to her scribbling, or pretending to, perhaps, "So, then, three times a week?"

Alfred watches as she clutches her notepad tightly, pen at the ready.

"Well, no. At first yeah, but not anymore, especially with Arthur prepping to take the GRE soon," there's a pause as Alfred tries to search around for Arthur's hand, but it's nowhere to be found, "Now I think Arthur's more into cuddling… you're an indoor cuddler now, aren't you, babe? He likes to be with his tea and the book on his lap, and I sometimes run my hands through his hair if I'm bored while watching TV and stuff."

"I—I… I am not!" he sputtered, grabbing for a wipe. Arthur began to scrub the bar tabletop aggressively, punctuating his work with sprinkled complaints. Mostly curse words muttered in a single breathe. Alfred seemed to ignore him. "Not a cuddler, bloody American git thinking his cuddling is that—"

"Then how many times a week?"

"Hmm. Typically once. Maybe twice. Sometimes not at all. Finances are a bit tight at the moment."

Arthur blanches, "what the hell do finances have to do with anything?"

"Nothing."

Arthur pouts.

"I wasn't complaining. Just saying that with you paying for those GRE prep classes, and me taking in those two cats, things are tight and we don't go out like we used to, y'know? But I don't mind. I like staying indoors and cuddling you. It's nice. And you even let me watch Doctor Who with you and stuff."

"Wait, then..."

"The cats like it, too," Alfred leans over Elizabeta' notepad, making sure to add rather loudly when he sees more of Arthur's coworkers wander in for the morning, "Arthur calls them our children."

Elizabeta nods. "I see. Children. How interesting."

"Yup, the children. Want to see a picture of them? They're really cute, so I say they look like Arthur."

Arthur barely catches sight of the feral grin beginning to spread over Alfred's face. And it hits him just how badly he has been played after letting his own mind take him to interesting places. But the last thing he wants now is to be exposed, because if Elizabeta demanded to see his wallet, well, he's not sure he's ready to let the whole world know he was a cat lover with a special weakness for fluffy kittens—much less ready for Alfred to confirm that his gag might not be one after all.

"Y—you were talking about." Arthur purses his lips together. He walks away. "I'm just. Excuse me. I need a moment."

Alfred shrugs. "So, then, next question?"

"If you go out once or twice a week, then, when do you have sex? Seems like you two are awful busy, so that has to be curious trying to find time between all _you_ do and everything Arthur has to do, too. And, uh, the children?"

"Ah, see, now that is even a _more_ complicated schedule, but we've come up with a system—"

"Alfred! Shut your bloody trap right now!"

**2.**

On their second date, Alfred watched amused as Arthur tried to fight with a bottle of ketchup.

"Bloody thing," Arthur had cursed, twitching his nose as he set the bottle back down. Defeated, he ultimately stabbed the inside with a knife. "Much better."

Alfred knew then that he liked the way Arthur's tongue curled with every speck of his accent. He already loved the way Arthur always had an opinion—about everything, sometimes even about nothing. But perhaps what tipped that love into adoration was that for once he could teach Arthur something. And Arthur could learn. Arthur _liked_ to learn, and that gave Alfred an excellent opportunity to sneak his way into the older gentleman's heart, a chance for Arthur to _like_ him, too.

Bright green eyes stared up at him.

"What?" Arthur chuckled, trying to dab a fry with the small cluster of ketchup he barely managed to scrape out.

"That's not how you do it," Alfred remembers grabbing for the bottle of ketchup, shaking it lightly before flipping off the cap. "You have to tip to a 30-degree angle, making sure that you're doing so with respect to the horizontal, so the neck should be pointing at your intended target. Like my burger. Then, you shake—"

"Don't do that!" Arthur made a motion to stop him, but Alfred simply stared at him. "I mean," he barely composes himself, giving his companion an embarrassed glance, "I—if you shake it while it's open, you'll get some on your shirt. And the table. And we don't have enough napkins to properly clean your expensive looking shirt—"

"It'll be fine." Alfred looked down at his shirt, not worried about stains. He'd had that shirt since college, and could almost remember the exact day he bought it with his mother in preparation for a competition in Oxford he'd entered with some friends. One of his last ones—everything, even today, overrides his fondness for the shirt. Ketchup and the glimmer on Arthur's pink lips might as well have been more important. Alfred remembers they were. "Just trust me, okay? – So then, you shake the bottle, lightly. It has to be in a vertical direction, see? See how I'm doing it? You gotta watch. It has to be precise to dislodge the ketchup from the bottle."

Arthur watched intently, even leant forward for a better look. He probably wondered if Alfred expected to impress him.

Alfred remembers how many girls he'd once impressed with the simple trick. He had expected Arthur might at least be amused by the practicality of the ritual.

"It's not coming out," Arthur challenged, beginning to look away disinterestedly.

The curve of his profile shadowed in the dimness of the room. Alfred sometimes thinks that it was then he first noted how handsome Arthur was—more so than beautiful.

"Patience, Artie. You're just doing this to help the ketchup get out easily. Air needs to come in. See how it's always harder to get the ketchup past the neck? This helps. Then, for more precision, tap the shoulder. Just tap, tap, tap and… ketchup. In perfect amounts."

"That's…" Arthur blinked, a smile curling over his lips, "That's actually impressive. Who taught you that?"

"It's simple trial and error, really," Alfred shrugged, dumping more ketchup on his fries. "Any physicist is probably familiar with the way a ketchup bottle works."

"Yes," Arthur nodded, biting into a crisp fry, "I'm sure you're right. But how do _you_ know of this?"

Alfred opened his mouth, barely, just a slight, tongue all ready to reply. But instead, he dabbed at his fingers with a napkin, finding some specks of left-over ketchup sliding over his finger. "Well, look at that. Maybe not so impressive after all."

Arthur grabbed for the napkin, cleaning his companion's finger. There was a short silence between then.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

**3.**

Arthur recognizes that Alfred has been telling Elizabeta the truth – even if he has yet to admit it to himself.

There was just something that snapped in him when he saw Alfred's flat, maybe it was his heart.

But ever since, he hasn't been able to piece it back together. It's been a painful recovery, being left with remnants of the past, which he so desperately wants back. Because Arthur wants Alfred, he wants him, whether it is with a fortune or with two cats and box of comic books. And that confuses him – it shouldn't, but it does.

So if he was ever honest, then Alfred would know. Not that Alfred should ever know. Why _should_ he know? – That Arthur is either a Jane Austen heroine, or a terrible person that only wants pretty things, a life built by the brick of industry: _and if they weren't so pretty, and if we weren't _meant_ to want them, then we wouldn't, right? But we do. _Arthur does. Desperately. And what he needs he doesn't see in Alfred, even if Alfred might just be the only thing he wants.

It's not the expense of the GRE classes. It's the pain of the expensive confession.

Sure, Arthur has been having some problems making his rent payments, and each month is definitely tighter on his wallet, but it's also the principle of the matter: Alfred has probably been making many sacrifices to keep up with his high-maintenance attitude to dating. Because even if Arthur isn't a romantic, he is a realist, and his whole upbringing – a mess in itself, really, with two parents living off one income with five children – has made him deeply conscious of money.

So conscious that he studied economics to understand the system better and only left with disappointment into a field that as now had left him barely clawing for the title of Middle Class. _Not that everyone doesn't call themselves Middle Class: what does that even mean? _Arthur doesn't know.

_Not shame. That's what_. And Arthur most certainly does not need any more shame.

It's easier. A lot _easier_, though. To imagine a life lived in luxury, to imagine everything he wants to give _to_ Alfred, and everything he can't, but at least now it's easier to chew through the subject matter he's never loved _for_ love.

**4.**

Alfred senses Arthur before he feels him. He loves those moments, so he sets aside his video game console.

"What are you thinking about?" Arthur asks, attacking Alfred's collar bone with soft kisses. He's set aside his homework after debating a break for a while. Alfred just seems to confirm his need for it when he takes hold of both his hands before they slip inside his open shirt. He can almost guess how long Alfred's been restraining himself from going over and robbing him from the book.

Arthur is almost thankful Alfred has been working hard to learn patience. He makes is gratefulness known by peppering a few nips alongside his boyfriend's jaw.

"Our second date. You?" Alfred replies, pushing Arthur back against the couch. "Hmm, never mind," he purrs, almost laughing. His finger barely brushes over Arthur's jeans. Soft lips nip at Arthur's earlobe. "I can sort of already tell."

"Oh hush now. I wasn't having any thoughts."

"You sure about that?"

"Completely."

"Man, then you gotta show me what's in that book that has you so worked up," blue eyes brighter than the sky in spring stare down at Arthur, filled to the brim with mirth so overwhelming that Arthur can see Alfred's laughter before he even hears it. "You're not, like, reading a Sherlock fan fiction under that book, are you?"

"Oh. Oh, you," Arthur laughs, pushing at Alfred's chest, "You have got to stop telling people at work that I have a Sherlock kink, love. I think Elizabeta actually believed you."

"Yes, well, Elizabeta believes a lot of things," Alfred rolls to his lover's side, pressing his nose against the crook of Arthur's neck. The couch is small, but somehow in between shuffling and the tangling of limbs, they manage to fit. "And I do mean a lot of things."

"Well, you do humor her quite a bit, Alfred. I think I almost saw her orgasm at the thought of us calling our cats _the children_. Really. Such nonsense."

Alfred sighs, "I think she knows I humor her. But it doesn't keep her from having fun living off the fantasy, you know? Sometimes that's all you need. It's, like, sometimes you just need anything that is not hard reality. Life's too short for reality all the time." He closes his eyes, yawning softly, "that's why we invented television."

Arthur nods, letting his fingers curl around his boyfriend's short hairs. He stares up at the ceiling, stomach churning as he processes everything Alfred has just said.

Sometimes he thinks Alfred is a genius. And then he looks around and shakes himself off the fantasy.

"You alright, babe?"

"Hmm? Oh, fine, love. Just fine."

It's a rather uncomfortable position—bony knees digging between thighs, and buttons grazing against navels, but it's enough. And that's all Arthur feels he needs then: not fantasy, just _enough_.

**5.**

Alfred remembers there being plenty of passion near the beginning of their courtship.

But if at least now there's no passion, there's tenderness.

It's not so bad: the exchange of lust for love.

**6.**

In fact, on their fifth date, Alfred can remember Arthur taking Alfred's finger into his mouth, and lapping at any remnants of ketchup in the comfort of darkness. Right behind a food van, where no one could see them.

It felt wet and hot, and Alfred immediately felt his whole body tense and jolt, and if it hadn't been because they were in public at a winter fair, he might have opened his jacket to make a tent large enough to let him _touch_ the gorgeous blonde in front of him.

He'd dated many blondes. None quite as bold as his Arthur.

But in the end that boldness proved too gentlemanly, and Alfred was left with flushed cheeks, a wet finger, a bruise ego, and a strangely erect piece of hair that thereafter refused to stay slicked back. And Arthur, he was left laughing – so hard that when he elbowed Alfred to win him a giant unicorn plushie, Alfred told him to go win it himself.

_He_ had to find a bathroom—damn tease.

**7. **

"You should probably be getting back to your studies, huh?" Alfred mentions casually, stirring from their latest cuddling session.

Arthur hums against his arm, nodding lazily. He peeks down at his watch. "I suppose I should. I'm surprised you're not hungry. Usually you're threatening to rip my arm off trying to drag me to McDonalds at this hour."

"I'm starving, actually," Alfred gives him a sheepish smile, stuffing his feet into his pair of sneakers before grabbing his keys. "I'm gonna step out for a bit to get some food. Want me to get you something from that one Thai place on my way back?"

"Don't bother. I can just cook myself something simple on your stove later."

"_Or_," the American offers, coughing into his hand, while looking away, "you know, I could bring food. You could, uh, _not_ burn my flat down, and then we can—"

"Shag?" Arthur offers, yawning. It's been a while. And he's sure he could use the stress-relief. Slowly, his hand digs into his pocket to bring out a cigarette and lighter. "If that wasn't the end to that sentence, I'm highly uninterested."

Alfred is always such a beautiful distraction.

"_Or_ we can tuck you into bed and watch Sherlock on my laptop?" Alfred chuckles, "I don't think you can make it beyond foreplay at the rate you're going, babe."

"Ugh, but I've been trying to initiate something all bloody afternoon." There was a string of lucidity that wrapped around Arthur's mind, stinging as it stretched and warped. "Is it me?" Arthur panics, not quite aware that he is whining, "You'd tell me if it was me, right Alfred?"

"I've noticed," Alfred counters, almost amused by his boyfriend's reaction. "You're really in the mood today. I know. Just not in the mindset. So it's you, but not really. It's me, too. I just want you to take it easy." He beams, "Hand me my jacket?"

"It's warm outside," Arthur shoves the leather jacket into his boyfriend's arms, resuming right after to pout in discontent. He crosses his arms, looking towards Alfred's bed, which had become for several days now a mixture between pillow fort and study war zone—books sprawled throughout the length, and the white duvet now marked with bright yellow dots, all the fault of Arthur and his highlighter. "_Me_. Certainly not me. I'm not the one saying no to sex. At least I'm making an effort, here."

"D'aww, don't pout, Artie!"

"I'm the one making an effort for everything—work, school, now even sex! Bloody hell, when did you stop wanting to have sex with me? Was it before or after I started this damned GRE prep course? Is it the cats? Because I don't really think they're our children, Alfred. I don't. I'm not _that_ neurotic."

The aforementioned kittens mewl, pawing at the box where they seem to spend most of their time. The same box that spends an inordinate amount of time on Alfred's bed, right next to Arthur's book, where the Englishman can keep a close eye on his babies. Arthur barely looks over toward them now, though, but still, perhaps in his guilt, contradicts himself. He lowers his voice. Just barely.

Alfred cringes, scratching at his temple. "It's not like that! Y—You're not neurotic! Babe, just calm down."

"You're damned right it's not like _that_," he hisses, "I am not neurotic. I don't care what you might tell Elizabeta when you think I'm not listening. I'm just trying to do better: that's _not_ a crime. In fact, you should try it."

"I never say stuff like that, Artie. And you know that! W—when I say something, well, something close to that, I'm just playing." Alfred frowns. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, knowing that the flood now unleashed had been mounting for a while. They've been living behind a dam, perhaps walking on eggshells for two weeks now and trying to pretend they don't see the cracks. But now that's failing. It's time to fess up. "Didn't we _just_ have a conversation about how Elizabeta knows it's all pretend?"

"But the schedule isn't pretend, is it?"

No. The schedule isn't pretend. But that isn't what bothers Alfred. Alfred could live on a schedule for Arthur. He could learn to structure every part of his day again, become an automaton like clockwork, but he knows that Arthur is desperate for something that he might not possibly be able to give.

Because behind Arthur's words, there's a biting challenge: has Alfred stopped trying?

Not with Arthur. Never with Arthur. And yet: if Arthur is not happy, what can Alfred do? – He is limited, has been limited for years now. Where to begin to deconstruct the damage into something manageable? Alfred's not sure he could do it—not even for Arthur.

"Tell you what," he tries anyway, "if when I come back you're all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, we can try. We can try, I don't know. Whatever you want, okay? Just. Please take it easy."

Alfred presses a short kiss to Arthur's temple, smiling down at him.

There's sadness in the depth of blue. Arthur can almost drown himself in desperation, drown himself for them both.

"I love you, Arthur."

It's but a whisper, and still it lulls his heart.

"I love you, too, git," Arthur replies, softly, almost tempted to wrap his arms around Alfred's torso.

Instead, he lets his lips plant themselves against Alfred's, softly biting and touching.

They've never fought before.

"I'll bring you back some Thai, okay? Don't study too much! And don't stress too much either. The brain is like a little machine. It needs rest, too, or else the gears all burn out and need replacements, but being humans we can't really get replacements and stuff. So just take it easy; I don't want you getting sick. I love you so much, I just want you to be okay…"

"You already told me," the Englishman huffs.

"I know," Alfred pecks his lips, "just telling you again. In case you needed to hear it."

**8.**

Arthur remembers loving Alfred as a distraction. It was the same part of him that loved Alfred as an abstract—_an ideal._

But if Alfred isn't a fantasy now, well, at least he's real.

It's not so bad, Arthur thinks, to exchange dreams for something he can touch and feel. It's all just part of growing up, right?

And there's _nothing_ wrong with growing up.

He just wishes Alfred would grow up with him, too.

**9. **

Alfred manages to surprise Arthur.

It only works because Arthur is stressed. He's stressed, and vulnerable, and afraid that Alfred might not want him, might not wait to experience the world he might be able to provide for them someday.

So when Alfred knocks on his door one evening and asks Arthur out for a walk by the park, he accepts, bitingly and sarcastic, kicking all the way as if he was being dragged by force from his homework. He even makes sure not to ask about the cats, because he knows this could be it: either the end, or their new beginning.

Deep down, though, he knows neither is the case.

He'd waited a week, a painful week of long work hours and even longer nights drinking tedious amounts of coffee to finish the last bit of studying before his exam in two days. The dark circles under his eyes are but a testament to every problem, every essay, every single fiber of his strength being sucked into a book that, hopefully, after the weekend he will never have to see again.

(Surprisingly, Arthur also knows that the more he claims to remodel his life _for_ love, the bitterer he becomes: all his sacrifices, and what has he to show for it? – Alfred seems oblivious to his needs, unlikely to _strive_ for better.

It's a pity, really, because for Alfred, Arthur has promised to touch the sky.

Maybe Arthur just isn't inspirational enough. Maybe he's just not _enough_.)

"I—I missed you," Alfred confesses sheepishly, taking Arthur into his arms.

It's all he says to preface his next statement.

"Missed you, too," Arthur answers. He is sobered by the coolness of the evening's air, and the smell of flowers and pollen converging into allergies he will feel tomorrow morning. "But it's almost over now," he sniffs at Alfred's leather jacket, taking in the smell of male musk, "Just two more days, and then—"

"Artie, I—I want you to move in with me."

**9.**

Alfred convinces himself that he has spent years _pretending_ to not be happy. How could he be?

He'd lost so much.

But when he stares at Arthur pouring over his books, he can't help but catch a clearer glimpse of his old self. And if once he'd admitted to himself that he liked dating Arthur because it felt like dating his _old_ self, well, now he admits that seeing it, instead of feeling it, terrifies him—in Arthur there is potential.

Potential, though, lies in wait encased in a glass of vulnerability. Always. Alfred has learned this throughout the years.

(The body is a fickle machine, and once it is broken, well, there's quite little to salvage, much less fix.)

It is then that Alfred decides he can't let Arthur burn out. He's too beautiful shining. His potential is almost didactic.

"Your flat is too small, Alfred," Arthur begins, trying to pull away, "I don't know if that—"

"I got a bigger one. It's way bigger, and awesome. You'll love it. It even has a balcony for your plants, and they allow cats for a small fee. It's close to that college you're looking at, just so we can save on transport costs, and, it's for you. So don't say no because I'm doing this for you."

Alfred convinces himself that Arthur's smile might as well be his own.

Maybe that's his biggest mistake.

**10.**

"Do you think they know they're having problems?" Elizabeta throws the question out to the group. It's obvious she's fishing for help. Everyone almost instantly stops moving around the closed restaurant. Ludwig tenses, perhaps looking the most uncomfortable of them all. "Sometimes couples just can't see it. I read about it all the time in magazines."

"Like, no, duh," Feliks rolls his eyes, "If they did, they wouldn't be, like, moving in together and stuff. Liet and I talked about it for like ages… as in eons before we even thought about packing a single pink sweater from my closet. And even then, I totes bargained: he needed to get me my own walk-in closet."

"I just think it's too soon," Elizabeta sighs, polishing her wedding band. "I didn't even consider moving in with my husband until we had been dating a solid three years."

"Ve~ I think it's great they're moving in together! Arthur and Alfred love each other very much, after all, right, Ludwig?"

"Speaking of which, when will the two of you move in together, _mes amis_?"

Ludwig simply grunts, excusing himself. He needs to return to his numbers.

"West will never leave the awesome me!" Gilbert snickers, pushing his way back into the kitchen. "But Feli is always welcome to move right on in. We've got the space."

Elizabeta punches Gilbert as he walks by, a twitch near her eye. "Can we focus? This is obviously a disaster waiting to happen. Just think about it, they just moved into an apartment neither of them can afford. And Alfred actually wants Arthur to quit his job so he won't have stress in his life? – What's going to happen to those poor children if they split up?"

"Hardly children. Cats are not children," Francis snickers.

"But, like, who _can_ afford an apartment anyway?"

"_Felito_ is right," Antonio nods, entering the room with a crate of tomatoes in arms. A bead of sweat pools on his brow. "Besides, Alfred isn't that bad off, you guys. He has investments. He was some prodigy, o algo así until he decided to retire!"

"You're stupid if you bought into that. Like, who retires from being a prodigy?" Feliks sighs, bringing out a nail filer from his pocket before moving to the far end of the room. "I'm done with you bitches."

"Oi, tomato bastard, get in here! I can't start cooking until I have all my ingredients!"

"Coming, Romano~!"

"Wait," Elizabeta tries to grab for his arm, practically crawling over the bar top, "but how do you know?"

"Alfred always walks the dogs around here and let's Antonio and me pet them during cooking breaks. He's always going to the bank. Ve~ they're so cute, the little animals."

"He has… investments? I wonder if Arthur knows."

Francis sighs, "This is _Arthur_, Liz. He probably has yet to even notice that Alfred was never actually poor, much less as stupid as he sometimes makes him out to be. Oh, don't give me that look. Tu sais bien that I adore Alfred, and Arthur, mais it's not difficult to note how condescending Arthur is to him sometimes. It's really quite a revelation that Alfred wants to even attempt to live such a life…"

From the corner of the room, Feliks slaps a table. "Amen to that, sister!"

"Yes, well—hey! Big brother, not sister!"

"Sorry, got, like, confused by the long hair."

"You have it, too!"

"Maybe, but mine is sleek and sexy. Yours is like 1990s Hanson, and you even have split ends."

"I do not! If I did, Joan would've said something!" He turns panicked to Elizabeta, "my wife would've said something, right?"

"Can we focus?" Elizabeta tries again, sighing as the room descends into chaos.

**11. **

They move in together in a week.

(Half the time Arthur thinks he'll go insane just trying to keep the cats stuffed in a box with their toys and blankets. Now that they're growing out of kitten-hood, everything is exciting to them, including all of Arthur's plushies and breakable pretty tea things.

It doesn't help that Scone and Sazzles have acquired separation anxiety _from_ Alfred. So that every time Alfred steps into the room, there are two happy little kitties trying to claw their way out of the box to saunter over to the American.

Everything, Arthur decides, was just easier when Scone and Sazzles were babies that slept all day and cuddled all night.

Except when he complains about such things to Elizabeta, well, he begins to feel more than a bit neurotic.

_Figures_.)

And, Alfred discovers Arthur's antique china collection.

(And breaks half a tea set.

Probably irreplaceable.

At first he feels bad. Arthur makes allusions to never forgiving him, but he only keeps his threats until noon, when Alfred surprises him in their new apartment _bedroom_, and drags him away to christen their new bed.)

Arthur – on the other hand – discovers old physics textbooks.

(It's an accident.

Arthur had been playing with the cats when the bouncy ball fell under Alfred's bed. He'd only made a quick grab for it, but pulled out box instead, and he'd seen them inside. But it'd only been an accident, and—

"Hey, babe," Alfred saw him with his hand under the bed, pushing the box back in, "Don't worry about under there. I'll pack the stuff under my bed, okay? Be right back; just going to walk Mr. Santorum's dogs. He broke his leg last week. Later. Love you!"

"Uh, sure. L—love you, too."

But even if it's an accident, he knows they're there on purpose.

The whole week he's itching to ask why.)

There are also talks of getting a third cat. But all suggestions are dismissed, along with any hints Arthur might give about Alfred considering college.

**12. **

They make a new live together in two weeks.

It's filled with coffee runs, tea bags, burnt scones, burnt hamburgers, an almost burnt kitchen, and bubble baths. And sex in the tub. And sex everywhere that is _not_ the kitchen, because Alfred and Arthur agree that would just be unsanitary.

There's an awkward stain on Alfred's couch. So they throw it away.

It's filled with cat toys, and overgrown weeds Arthur calls plants, and Dr. Who, and Sherlock re-runs, and kisses—morning kisses, afternoon kisses, evening kisses, _just because you're there_ kisses, _I missed you_ kisses, _I want you_ kisses, and _I'm sorry_ kisses.

Arthur finds the box of physics books under the bed again. He assumes Alfred will never throw those away.

It's filled with couple volunteering trips to the city animal shelter, because there's a new llama, and Alfred has always wanted to show Arthur a llama. It's all silly things, silly meetings, silly outings, where they get to pretend they're not just _any_ couple: because sometimes days are tragic, like the day they thought Sazzles had eaten part of a pencil; other days are triumphant, like the day Arthur finally got Scone to use the litter box by the balcony instead of their bathroom rug. Other days just don't seem to be very productive.

There's a chip on Arthur's favorite teacup. Alfred isn't sure how it got there, but he decides to find a copy of it on e-bay—and ends up paying a hundred dollars for a flimsy piece of china.

But it's an anniversary present anyway, because those two weeks are special.

Two weeks that seem to last from a glimmer into infinity.

**13. **

In six weeks, however, Arthur walks into Feliciano's restaurant. Elizabeta knows almost immediately from the look on his face that he's miserable.

Their eyes meet almost instantly. When he sees her, he sniffles, trying desperately to look away.

"Arthur? What are you doing here?" she tries, nearing him gently.

"E—Elizabeta, I—I think Alfred hates me."

"Oh, Arthur," she ushers him to the bar, trying to keep other customers from seeing him. Immediately, Antonio takes over her tables. There's an unspoken tragedy in the hush that has fallen over the room, perhaps even patrons trying to listen in. Francis doesn't say a word; he simply hands Elizabeta a glass of water, which she extends to Arthur. "I'm sure that's not true. Alfred loves you."

"No, no he doesn't," Arthur shakes his head stubbornly, refusing the glass of water, "He _loved_ me, but I don't he loves me anymore. He hates me now!"

"_Mon cher_," Francis tries, leaning next to Elizabeta on the opposite side of the bar, "don't say that… You might start to believe such a terrible lie. And we might, too."

"Well you should, because it's true! He hates me. And you know what's worst?" he looks up at them both, green eyes brimming with tears. "I think I hate him, too."


	4. Part IV: Summer, first half

**Author Note:**Remember – ½ width please! Do not panic if you can't tell the divisions of time here anymore. Maybe some of you didn't, or did notice the slow differences as the piece moved from a set past tense to a past-present tense to a random past-present-past tense, and now we get to the weird constant present tense. If you didn't, it's cool. My fault for failing. I'm sure (or hope) you also noticed that in this story the concept of time has been growing more elastic. It gets kind of crazy here, rushed and frantic, more like fragmented thoughts. It's going to make sense in the end. And you should see glimpses of that already in this chapter, and hopefully that'll make sense of other things in the previous chapters. But this is only the **first half** of chapter 4, which means there's more...

Finally, I promise that _Fragments_ is not a cheesy reference to the way the story is written. It has to do with physics. So, yes, it'll all make sense in the end. I hope. No, no, I promise. Apologies over how long it is taking to finish: I accidentally deleted the chapter, and it seems the story decided that it had its own ideas of how it wanted to get finished. So now I'm going along for the ride. But don't think the story has gone random. There's a purpose to this! Promise. Oh gosh. Such are my fails. Here we go…

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia. I don't own the song lyrics either. Of course, I don't own Slaughterhouse-Five, though you should read it anyway.

**Part IV: **Summer (first half)

**1.**

_Stupid cupid keeps on calling me. But I see loving in his eyes._

_Sending you forget me nots to help me to remember._

_Baby please forget me not. I want you to remember. _

_I miss my baby. Tonight._

Alfred blinks, closing the pages gently. "This is how it ends?"

There's a question in his voice, maybe filled with more amusement than doubt. It is rather silly, Arthur admits by nudging Alfred with his elbow. After all, there are scratched out numbers and all sorts of symbols written on the margins of the page.

"I mean," Alfred blinks, again. His body seems to have lost memory of how to move around Arthur. "I suppose. It's an awesome ending, Arthur. Yeah. I just. I didn't expect _that_."

Arthur shrugs, sitting next to him on the sofa. He takes the little black book from Alfred's hands, giving him a strained smile as he tries to stretch. In a way, Alfred is right. It doesn't feel quite like an ending.

"I don't actually know how it ends to tell you the truth."

Alfred flinches at the ring of the word. And, almost immediately, Arthur drops his hand over his arm, squeezing it reassuringly.

"It's just. I don't really know half the story."

Blue eyes settle on his face for a moment. But suddenly, it feels like eternity.

Of course, Arthur knows that's impossible: eternity is the child of promises, and promises are only ever kept in love stories. Proper love stories. Not the nonsense he's written: little scenes glued together with numbers and kisses. And still he loses himself in the promise, and, maybe, Alfred loses himself in it, too.

**2.**

There is a distance between them.

It is a carefully cultivated gap through which they manage not to brush hands, not to knock shoulders, not to smile and laugh and reach and caress and touch and kiss until they are breathless with the dizzying pitter-patter of their hearts pressed against each other.

It is a space maintained, constructed in the silence of their movements—conversations in exasperated breaths and rolled eyes and hidden sobs in cold showers or hot tears brushed away behind books and numbers and cats.

There is a bridge, too. Only it is inhabited by the ghosts of all the touches and whispers and kisses and—and maybe it is _this_ that frightens Arthur the most—all the love that could have been, all the secrets left to rot. And if Arthur is scared, well, he is sure Alfred must be scared, too.

His lover has always been afraid of ghosts.

**3.**

"W—what happened?" Elizabeta asks him nervously one day near the end of spring, maybe the beginning of summer. Yes, the beginning of summer. Francis remains within reach, even though he pretends not to listen. It is better that way, anyway, for everyone to listen while pretending not to. "Arthur, Arthur, what happened? – Did Alfred _tell you_ he hates you? Did he say he doesn't love you anymore?"

There's this resistance in the crack of her voice, like she's inviting him to comfort her. Somehow, this makes him grow small and uncomfortable, because if he came seeking for comfort, he did not particularly expect to give it.

"No. Well, he hasn't said he loves me in the last few days, but he hasn't particularly _said_ he _doesn't_ love me, either," Arthur admits, almost bashful now. He nurses his cup of water, blinking away hot tears. "But he was so angry with me. He's never, I mean, that is to say, he's never… we've never… and my book… he…"

Elizabeta waits, her eyes momentarily leaving his to check on her tables. Antonio gives her a thumbs-up, rushing back into the kitchen. Her hand settles on Arthur's shoulder, gently nudging him to continue.

"We've fought before but never," his voice grows transparent like gossamer as he stops crying. And Elizabeta slowly understands that Arthur is scared. She can't remember ever seeing Arthur scared. He's even sobered himself so convincingly into the feeling now that she can barely be sure. He's adapted and adjusted and bridged the distance with a steady voice. But the fear is there, palpable to her in perhaps the only way Arthur knows to let her in on the secret—a flash of green…

"Not like that…"

Francis nods to himself. He wipes at a few glasses in the background, hanging them by the bar. "So shit finally hit the fan, as Alfred crudely likes to say, _oui_?"

He is largely ignored by Arthur—a rather typical occurrence. Only Elizabeta acknowledges him by barely giving him a narrowed gaze. Maybe it is a warning.

It's hard to tell, really. Belief has been suspended for Arthur's sake, and it now hangs precariously low, almost like bait. Dangerous bait, too. Francis almost wonders if Alfred or Arthur planted it first, though he's sure with a bit less tact he could find out with relative ease. Still, there's an air of misfortune about Arthur, always has been, and it makes it almost boring to pretend that it would be any fun to brand pain with agony. So it is that with a hum, Francis dismisses such thoughts. After all, he only has a most basic knowledge of fishing. And baits are horribly pedantic.

He has an expert understanding of love, though.

Baits or no baits, he can recognize love – maddening, insecure, character changing love – when he sees it. Such love is, perhaps, the most tragic. And he admits to himself that he always thought Arthur too much of a romantic and Alfred too beautiful to _not_ be tragic.

"What did—Arthur, what did Alfred say _exactly_?" Elizabeta bends above him, "What did you do? What did he do?"

Feliciano is peeking at them from his usual spot perched on the round window that looks from the kitchen to the world. There he remains, safe until Ludwig drags him into his office.

"I don't really know. There was a moment when—it was the books. Yes, it was the books. He was fine when he walked in and said he had news for me, and then I told him I wanted him to look at the new shelf and, he, he saw the books. Yes."

"Wait," Elizabeta blinks. "You're telling me this is all about a set of books?"

Arthur just nods. "Oh, that's silly, isn't it? I don't know. I just. There were his books, and then there was conversation about mine."

"Your books?—Oh, he couldn't be mad about that. It's not like you have that many. I mean, you have a lot, but not like a ridiculous amount. And you're really neat, too."

"No, it wasn't about space, or clutter. It was… I don't know what it was about if I'm honest. I'd be damned if he knew what he was saying either. I just know this was _different_."

Elizabeta nods, "Yes, you've said that, but, different how, Arthur?"

"Like we said so many things and said so many at once that it's not like—not like, oh blimey, listen to me, trying to poeticize my little domestic with Alfred. I'm sorry. I should go, shouldn't I? You have to get back to work. Yes, I should go."

"No, no, stay a bit longer. You're shaking. Here, drink your water."

Francis hums knowingly to himself, turning away from the couple next to him. Oh baits. Maybe he _should_ try his luck at fishing.

**4.**

Sometimes, Alfred comes to bed late and Arthur groggily slips his hand between them, searching for reassurance.

When Alfred touches Arthur on those nights, Arthur forces himself awake to lean into the warm hand softly impressing love upon his flesh. And when the moment dies and there's nothing but the soft sound of breathe exhaled and surrendered to their pillows, Arthur opens his eyes to study Alfred's profile. He lets his gaze skitter down – lashes kissing Alfred's nose bridge along the way – to their intertwined legs.

He aches for Alfred's hands in those moments, much as if he were yearning for the return of a phantom limb's kiss.

**5.**

Arthur's ghost first rears its head during the honeymoon period.

Maybe it's because Arthur's never believed in ghosts that he wasn't aware he was haunted by one. But learning of its presence becomes as simple as Alfred asking about his favorite book.

There's a smile on Alfred's lips when he asks—so large, so bright that it almost blinds Arthur in love, so _in_ love. It's quite normal, really. By now Arthur is used to feeling much like an invalid around Alfred.

"Slaughterhouse-five," Arthur whispers, almost embarrassed. A light, but stubborn pink dusts his cheeks. He's supposed to be the well-read one. And here he is confessing that his favorite book is a science fiction novel, even if it is a famous science fiction novel.

Alfred shifts, turning to focus all his attention on Arthur. His smile grows wider, surely enjoying the way Arthur has turned a precious red.

It's quite normal, really.

Alfred doesn't comment on it, either. Instead, he lets his thumb run over his boyfriend's cheekbone. His fingers pad over the skin, resting right at the juncture where the edge of bone and skin is so sharp his breathe catches from the beauty of the profile lying under his touch.

Arthur's breathe catches, too. Wet lips press against his face. He responds by curling into the body next to him as they lie on the couch together, limbs intertwined, and arms warm like portable ovens. At their feet, three cats continue to fight for a monopoly over their feet.

It's spring, but Arthur ignores the blanket of heat. He tucks his chin into Alfred's arms. It's almost like he's hiding. He wants to hide.

Sazzles is already pawing over his ankle, practically dangling from his body as Scone tries to push him up with her nose. Teacup watches the two kittens try to climb from the comfort of the sofa's arm.

Alfred clears his throat, lips nipping at Arthur's earlobe: "_It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever_."

Arthur's eyes widen in surprise and he laughs, "Oh, so you've read it. Should've known you'd be familiar with most science fiction, you git."

"Are you kidding?" Alfred laughs, too, already moving to press open-mouthed kisses at Arthur's collarbone. He pops open the remaining buttons of Arthur's shirt, eyes glittering with yellow mischief, "It's my favorite book, too. Must be fate."

"Hmm," Arthur purrs against Alfred's skin, letting the soft sound bounce off his boyfriend's dimple.

"Fate," Alfred repeats, eyes slitting closed.

"And us having the same favorite book excites you, eh? Kinky bastard," Arthur wraps his arms around Alfred's torso, trying to pull him up so that their lips might meet again, but Alfred seems to have different plans, already letting his fingers dip into the belt loop of his jeans. "Oi, not so fast. You'll kick the babies."

Alfred looks up at Arthur. His eyes scan Arthur's face, slowly, tenderly, almost as if he's trying to read a secret. And still, there's Arthur, pale even with a smile painted all over his body. "It's not _that_ that's exciting me," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss on his lover's temple, "It's the fact that now I can tell you why I'll always love you and you'll understand…"

Arthur is sure Alfred likes talking in riddles. He has little idea what a war novel—a reconstruction novel even—could ever have to say about love. He hopes Alfred won't try to make a connection between their relationship and World War II, or aliens. And still, there's an awkward dip in his stomach when he remembers the novel and his eyes flitter to the side table where his pocket black book rests, waiting for him.

_Unwritten_.

"But first, we cuddle!" Alfred announces, jostling Arthur nervously away from his thoughts.

"Naked?" Arthur arches a thick eyebrow, trying to hide the tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. But already he's lifting a leg, helping Alfred as he strips him. The cats mewl unhappily at his feet.

"It's only like the best kind of cuddle, babe. You know how I roll." Alfred winks, already pulling Arthur's trousers down to his ankles, "Only the _very_ best for you, boo."

"Don't call me _boo_, Alfred," Arthur huffs, slapping Alfred's fast hands away from the band of his underwear. "Nope; you're not leaving me stark naked on this sofa until you put the cats in the bedroom _and_ peel off some layers. Go on then."

**6.**

Alfred slips into bed quietly _one _night.

And, almost instantly, Arthur stills, listening in the silence of the room for the familiar sound of clinking metal as his lover's belt-buckle is undone, prefacing the jeans soon to be on the floor and the sight of taut tan thighs exposed to the cool air from the fan. Arthur sees neither, but he can almost feel the warmth of Alfred's body when the bed dips and his lover curls away from him.

Arthur isn't sure what prompts him to assume that perhaps this night can be different. Maybe it's that he's tired now. Weeks of fighting have wretched his appetite for strife. He could do with something sweet. Touch—perfect, unabashed, unashamed. Nothing could be sweeter. _Reassurance. _

So, he stretches his hand out between them.

In response, Alfred's shoulder curves and his body uncoils, making Arthur's heart beat faster.

Waiting, Arthur closes his eyes, holding his breath.

It's a warm night. Not a night for cuddling with the way he's disposed of everything except his pajama bottoms and rolled the duvet to Alfred's side with his kicking.

All nights are warm lately, though. There's nothing special about this one night being warm, not considering that the AC is broken and a draught is hitting the entire state. It's so hot Alfred and Arthur had to give up their second fan to the cats—Teacup, Scone, and Sazzles, all three, poor dears, who've been delegated from the comfort of their owners' bed to the living room due to their furry disposition, which makes them almost reminiscent of tiny convection ovens.

After a while, Alfred doesn't move.

The hand is retrieved gently, stuffed back under a white sheet and tucked under Arthur's side.

To pretend eats away at him as he turns around, eyes set on the arched back in front of him. Arthur almost wishes he'd disposed of the duvet with more care, because now there's a bulwark of fluffy fabric between them making it almost impossible to reach _for_ Alfred accidentally. So he gulps the knot in his throat away, pressing his cheek against his boyfriend's bare back—so cold. And still he keeps his fists between them, not quite sure what to grab, knuckles less white than redder from nerves.

**7. **

Sometimes, Arthur can't sleep and Alfred wakes to the sound of soft scribbling, like white noise searching for color.

When Arthur cards his fingers through Alfred's hair on those nights, Alfred forces himself awake to moan his approval of the nimble fingers drawing devotion on his skin. And when the moment dies and there's nothing but the feel of Arthur's lips ghosting over his own, Alfred opens his eyes and with a smile asks, "What were you writing about tonight?" He lets his fingers twine with Arthur's – pads feeling the calluses created from the pressure of the pencil on Arthur's palms – and Arthur's knuckles fit with his.

"I'm documenting a love story," Arthur admits tiredly, turning around to bring Alfred's arm around his body. He hides in the cocoon of warmth, kissing Alfred's hand along the way.

"You're writing a love story?" Alfred asks, yawning. But by then, Arthur is typically smiling; his eyes are closed and breathe even as he angles his head perfectly to press a quieting kiss to Alfred's jaw. "What's it about Arthur? – Arthur?"

"Love, Alfred. It's about love. And sacrifice. But mostly love."

There's always a moment of silence during which Alfred aches to hear the tender lulling bass of Arthur's voice as his accent curls into whispers and reassurance. He yearns for the return of sound to break the white noise in his own mind.

"Can I read it when it's done?" he asks, hiding from the dark in Arthur's hair. Slowly, he takes in the smell of sunshine. "You'll let me read it, yeah?"

But Arthur never responds.

**8.**

Alfred wakes up to a handful of Arthur in his arms, messy gold hair brushing under his jaw and thick eyebrows barely perceptible from the shadows of his neck. His lips are pressed against his collar bone, soft and comforting.

He blinks the grogginess from his eyes, jolting in surprise. His eyes continue to skitter in panic.

Arthur has always commented – in between breathless peppered kisses everywhere – how he hates it when Alfred tries to resolve their problems with physical affection: _Alfred, Alfred, you really, oh what am I to do with you, you beautiful, beautiful boy? You need to start using your mouth for speaking instead of trying to asphyxiate me with your tongue_.

And still, here's Arthur, hands fisted around his arms keeping their bodies pressed flush together in the heat of the summer morning.

Alfred slams his head against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling just trying to regain focus in his eyes. There's this uncomfortable weight pressing on his chest, right above his heart. And it's so obviously Arthur that it hurts all the more because of it. But Alfred can't bring himself to move, arms trapped under the weight of his boyfriend's fists, which somehow during the night have managed to curl _around_ Alfred's arms—like shackles.

He exhales a rattling breath, trying to stifle a yawn in hopes of funneling air into his lungs, and still there's this pain that punctures at his throat.

It's the last thing he considers before pressing the balls of his wrists on Arthur's shoulders to push him onto the duvet crowded next to their bodies. But the pressure on his arms reminds him that they're attached—perhaps more, as Arthur's fingers dig into his skin, nails ridging painfully against his muscles.

So Alfred mounts Arthur, thighs pressed against his lover's sides as he tries to keep them attached.

Arthur falls with ease onto the duvet underneath him. The sheets cradle his face, making him dip his cheek into the cold surface.

Lying above him again, Alfred can explore the lines of worry on his forehead and the almost accusingly blatant wet patches dry under his eyes, right at the juncture of his still damp lashes. He licks his dry lips, sobered by the feel of skin on skin and friction as he leans down, pressing his mouth right over Arthur's cheek. He peppers kisses down the line of his boyfriend's cheekbone, over his forehead, right at the curve of his mouth. And it's at that moment he feels the release of taut, tense, nervous fingers as Arthur's arms wrap around his neck, bringing him down further for their lips to touch.

**9. **

"Go home, Arthur," Elizabeta advises him after some hours. "Just go home."

"I don't know if that's the best idea," he scoffs, scratching at a stain on the bar with his thumb. "For all I know, Alfred's still upset, and I'd rather not fight with him again."

"Then don't," she sighs, donning her apron once again. Her fingers tie the knot by her lower back with expert precision. She pulls her hair neatly away from her face into a ponytail, giving him a stern look. "But go home. Talk to him. And, listen, I have to get back to work now, but call if you need anything, _anything_ at all. Okay?"

Arthur nods, jumping off the booth. He soon finds himself enveloped into a hug.

Once Elizabeta is gone, Feliks walks out from the kitchen, probably ready to start his shift. He takes one look at Arthur before letting out a deep breath and rushing to hug him as well. Arthur feels suspended in time, almost as if he's watching everything from a distance, hearing things in murmurs that take hours to reach him. In his thoughts there's but a speck of blue. He reaches out for it, grasping it in his subconscious for peace—and in that blink of space, he thinks of Alfred.

"You look like death, Arthur," Feliks remarks, patting his arms. "Just, like, don't worry too much," he advises, too. "Antonio was telling me all about it in the back: Alfred is like so totally in love with you that he'd hate _himself_ before even deciding he wasn't head-over-heels and all that jazz with you, okay? Okay. Right. Now work. But seriously, just chill. He's so into your ass—like literally, actually—that—"

Arthur isn't listening. From behind the bar, Francis stares at him for a few seconds until Arthur feels his skin heat with an uncomfortable wave of anger. He notes by then that he is cold now, alone. Feliks has left perhaps some seconds ago to prepare his tables.

"What are you looking at, huh, frog?" he snaps, grabbing for his wallet.

Francis simply shrugs, moving to leave the bar and enter the kitchen.

"Oh nothing."

Arthur huffs and rolls his eyes before stomping his way to the door.

"Well some help and friend you are!"

Francis blinks, "Mais, you're the one always saying we're _not_ friends." He waves the other off dismissively, already pushing the door of the kitchen open, right at the juncture of Feliciano's window. "Regardless, Arthur, what you need right now is not reassurance, but a warning. It doesn't matter what I say, though, you're not going to listen to me."

"Well, you don't have the best track-record when it comes to advice."

"But it isn't advice. It's a warning."

Arthur looks away, "alright, well, then out with it if it's so good."

"I didn't say it was good. Just that it was a warning, mon cher." Francis pauses, then looks away. "Alors, here it is, anyway: Don't bite the bait."

"Don't... what?"

Francis sighs, inwardly, almost wistfully, and he beckons Arthur forward, surprised when the Englishman approaches. It's to be expected, really. Francis has never had the highest opinion of Arthur. And now Arthur is at a loss with the other's riddle.

They meet at the bar for a moment, and Arthur sees blue—just blue, serene and tranquil, and he is reminded of peace and Alfred, and he wonders why it is that he can see in Francis' eyes a reflection of Alfred. It's disconcerting and frightening and leaves him parched for answers.

"O—Oi! W—what are you! Get your hand out of there!"

"Take it from someone that's divorced: just don't bite the bait." Francis' hand slips out of Arthur's pocket. He proceeds to flip through the pages, watching as numbers melt into words and words melt into numbers. "Love stories, _comme tu sais bien_, are always a little bit tragic. Just a little bit. But only in certain parts. Seldom do _true_ love stories fragment completely at the seams of heartbreak. Even badly written novels such as yours can somehow manage to piece together a proper ending. You're a writer right?"

"You know well I've never been a writer."

"Oh, of course you are, Arthur," Francis turns away, smirking, "You're not a _good_ writer, but you're a writer anyway. All romantics are. Someday I, too, will show you my badly written prose. And maybe you'll even pretend to like it. Don't look at me like that. You know you will. We might not like each other, but we don't hate each other either, _cher_."

**10. **

They're in the kitchen a week later when Arthur reaches out for Alfred's arm, pulling him towards his body, almost as if hoping that by force he might once again claim Alfred's attention. But Alfred has always been stubborn, and maybe it's because of his character that he pulls back.

"My toast is burning," he excuses himself, moving towards the toaster.

Arthur simply nods. He makes himself a cup of tea, watching from his position by the counter as Alfred spreads jam over his toast. The counter is digging into his side rather painfully, but still he stays in the same spot, taking in the sight of sharp features as they ease and tumble into the alertness of the morning. Alfred is always glorious in the morning—like an expert machine, fashioned to calibrate in steps. It is a sight to detect the basic slurs that take his languid, sleepy movements to decisive struts and taut muscles.

"I'd like you to read something for me."

Alfred looks up from his coffee now.

"No offense, Arthur, but I'm still kind off pissed at you right now. I don't really want to do you any favors."

"Fair enough," Arthur acquiesces, rather too easily. He can sense the way in which Alfred's mind tries to fight through the confusion. But Arthur is decided: he will not bite the bait. Whatever that means. "When you are no longer so horribly upset with me, will you be so kind as to inform me of it so that I may properly ask you to read something for me then?"

Alfred shrugs. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

"Brilliant," Arthur forces a smile out. Inside, he almost wants to cry. "You'll be going out again today, I suppose?"

Alfred quirks an eyebrow, arching it as high as possible, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, nothing. I just." Arthur looks away. "I finished. I mean, I. You said I should. I…"

There's this silence between them again. Alfred can only think of white noise. Arthur can only think of phantom limbs and kisses and everything in between the pendulum of love and madness and hatred and baits and so many things at once that he pushes his chair away from the table with a screech. He stands, panicked.

"Nothing. You know what, just forget I mentioned it, yes?—Have a good day out at, at…"

It hits him like ice—so cold, so sudden and uninspiring—that he doesn't even know where it is Alfred goes recently. So he purses his lips. And he can feel the anger resurface. But he's not going to bite the bait. He has to be patient. There are many things Arthur doesn't understand, many things he will never understand, but he knows he's scared now. He's scared of losing Alfred.

And in the tired bags lining Alfred's eyes, he can see Alfred is worried, too. If not scared, at least worried. For Arthur that is enough. For once, something is enough. Isn't that how it works when it comes to Alfred?—Enough.

"… the library," Alfred finishes for him.

Arthur nods. "Right, the library."

"I'll start spending more time here," Alfred adds instantly, almost sheepish and guilty.

For a moment it feels like everything has returned to normal. But Arthur knows better.

He gulps. "You don't have to. But just know I'll be here. Regardless."

**11. **

To avoid asking questions, Arthur decides to simply stop speaking altogether.

Instead, he writes in his black book, taking breaks only to drink tea and play with the cats. He coddles them with the love and touch he cannot give, and waits, patiently, sometimes stealing peeks at Alfred, who sits by the balcony. He touches Arthur's plants as he reads _Slaughterhouse-Five _during long breaks from a thicker textbook Arthur has yet to see.

And Arthur only wonders if maybe Alfred had a point when he indirectly compared their romance to a war novel.

But somehow the thought feels much like taking the bait—whatever that is supposed to mean, really. So he just writes the number 12 and ignores the aching in his chest and the gnawing at his arm.

**12. **

_Sending you forget me nots to help me to remember._

_Baby please forget me not. I want you to remember._

**Monthly Budget**

Rent - $3400

Vet - $24

Cable/Internet - $55

Electricity - $200

…

**TBC**


	5. Part IV: Summer, final half

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia. I also do not own _Slaughterhouse-Five*_, but think you should read it. Also, thank Einstein for time relativity. Fourth dimension? – Nope, I don't own it. I can only draw it, but so could you if you simply looked up a tesseract. I'm not a physicist. Make of that what you will.

**Part IV: **Summer (final second-half)

**13. **

"Say something?" Alfred's voice breaks in the same shape as the fissure in his heart. He splints it together carefully with Arthur's hands, each finger a band-aid on the bleeding line. As their arms fall between them, Alfred fixates on Arthur's veins, like tiny bridges leading from Arthur's heart to the tip of his fingers. "Arthur, don't just stay quiet."

Arthur licks his lips.

There's a frog in his throat and its jumping around so hard and fast that he's having trouble saying anything at all. He would much rather have a knot in his throat so he could just pull at it and strangle himself in this moment to match the way in which his heart and stomach are squeezing together over and over.

This is life, he thinks, hitting him hard in the face, waiting for him to get back up to punch him in the stomach.

But his fingers are too busy trying to catalogue the warmth of Alfred's flesh to roll into fists and fight back. Besides, he decides, getting the wind knocked out of him is the only way he'll ever remember the desperate wanton love his lungs have for air.

"What would I say?" his lashes kiss his cheeks, the only kisses his cheeks are likely to have for a while. He kisses himself with tears, because water? – Water washes away everything. He can see that already happening outside his window. "Is there anything to say? You're leaving anyway, aren't you?"

Alfred sighs; pressing his forehead against Arthur's wrinkling one, he whispers, "I don't know. You could say you're staying with me. That this is good for us, you know? For you and me. You've been hounding me about getting myself together and doing something good for us. I guess I expected more from you, like happiness or something."

"More from _me_?" Arthur gasps cynically. He draws away gently. "Yes, I said you should try to do better, but better _here_! Not in England! Bloody fuck's sake, Alfred, why, why would you even think I'd want you anywhere that was not _here_…"

"It's not about where you want me, Arthur. It's about where I want to be," Alfred looks towards the window. "You wanted to be here. Here's where I got you. In some expensive little neighborhood neither of us could afford so you could brag to your friends about something they didn't even care about. So here we are. Is it better? Do you like it better when we lie in that big bed than when we had that tiny one and had to sleep huddled up? Tell me, because if you like how things are now, then fine, I'll stay."

"There's more room for the cats," Arthur huffs, aware of his excuses.

"And look where they are. All on top of each other on that chair," Alfred chuckles, pressing kisses to his boyfriend's knuckles. After several seconds, he grows serious. "I'm going. With or without you, Arthur, I'm going."

"Then there's not much I can say is there?"

"Sure there is. There's lots you could say. You could say you'll still be with me. I'd like that, and I think you would, too."

"You know I can't," Arthur tries to withdraw his hands, but Alfred keeps him in place. "I have school, Alfred. And someone has to pay off the rest of this lease and the cats—"

"—and that's fine. I'm not saying you have to pack up and move with me tomorrow. Hell, I'm not even moving there tomorrow, babe," Alfred draws circles over Arthur's palms, "I just want you to say that no matter what we're staying together. Because, because Arthur, I don't know about you, but I don't want to break up with you, not ever. I love you so much. And, yeah, I know we've been through some tough weeks, but what couple hasn't? – This is just one more of those moments…"

"I don't know if I can think of it in the same way, Alfred," Arthur stands. He wipes at his eyes with his thumbs.

Inside his chest, his heart expands, then constricts. It thumps at his chest, knocking wildly in his ribcage. He counts: one punch for every year.

First in the face so that he couldn't speak, beg for Alfred because it wouldn't be fair. Then right in the stomach so that he can't breathe. He wonders if life will now kick him in the knees; break his kneecaps so he'll never get back up. If he's lucky, maybe life will break his elbows, too, so he doesn't drag himself across the mud left behind by the rain in an attempt to follow behind Alfred.

"I—I love you. I do. But five years?" he holds onto his stomach, "It's too much. I just, I don't think I can…"

"Arthur…" Alfred's face falls. "Arthur, wait, let's just talk about this…"

"I can't. I'm thankful you've trusted me with everything, with your past, but this? I can't. I can't do the past, present and future all at once, Alfred. I'm not you. I just need time, alright?"

**14. **

There is a kiss—hot lips pressed together and a slick tongue circling the inside of his mouth. There's the taste of languid moments left to rot and thunder screaming into infinity.

Every inch of Arthur's fingers feel electric on his chest and hair and chin, like brands tattooing their claim on his skin. And Alfred is almost dizzy, fainting in the thrumming sensations traveling from his lips to every inch of his body.

This is just a kiss, he reminds himself. Just a kiss. One in hundreds. One in thousands, maybe. People kiss every day, every second. They kiss_ over and over and over_, but he's sure he's never kissed before kissing Arthur. This feels more like dying, like saying goodbye and hello all over again, and he takes it in, tasting too afraid to forget.

This is their first kiss. Only _better_. Their first kiss was fast. But it was also too slow. It began with _hips aligned at an angle_ and ended with _hands in each other's hair, and whistling all around_. It continued with _Alfred's back digging into a bar top, and then Arthur's moaning in his ear as he was propped against a sweaty wall in a sticky club_. They kept stopping as if to speak but only smiled at each other instead_, moving languidly through the dance floor to the bar to the wall to everywhere that was just a good place to kiss for a while._

"Kiss me again."

When they moved in together they would _drift up the stairs, ending in bed, still dressed, the electric prang of kisses lingering in the warmth of the flat against the cold_ of their fingers, those fingers, like sugar, god, like the scent of Arthur on the curl of his tongue, the feel of his breathing hitching with the same slant as their hips.

Kisses are just kisses, Alfred reminds himself. They exist in limbo—lips nipping down an exposed neck, or warm breath ghosting over the lobe of an ear, existing in the wetness of words and red and pink and bruises and caresses.

"_It's alright, it's alright."_

Alfred wonders when he stopped thinking of kisses as clinical affection, because kisses now are pressure and heat and confessions: liquid romance in the tip of his tongue, which he presses to the rooftop of Arthur's mouth, taking greedily the left-over spice of tea.

Yes._ Kisses are a greeting with toast and tea and maybe a burnt piece of coal. They're languid smiles, like rivers of thank yous and I Love Yous in between tying ties and eating food and watching the television on cold nights_. It's like watching someone's mouth trying to mime romance. Better than hands pressed taut against the hem of his pajama pants, though not quite as good as Arthur moaning against his neck when he presses his thigh to the tight bulge in his pajama bottoms.

Arthur gasps, tensing in Alfred's arms. This is how it all climaxes, falling together into sounds because there's rain outside. And suspended in the secret of the world that Alfred has always known but never understood, he comforts Arthur with the knowledge that there is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no cause, no effect.

There is just this.

**15. **

_1 May 2012_

_Re: University of Oxford Admissions_

_Dear Alfred,_

_I am pleased, on behalf of St. John's College, to offer you a place for admission in October 2012 to read Physics and Philosophy, a 5-year course that, understanding your unusual circumstances and great promise, bridges both a Bachelor's and Master's degree. _

_Could I please ask you to let me know, preferably within the next 21 days, if you do not intend to accept this offer. This will enable me to offer any places which are declined to other applicants and will also enable us to inform…_

**16. **

Alfred has a lot of time to hate himself in the hospital. He receives an e-mail from his old tutor, and Alfred's mother reads it, almost proud. She's inspired. Alfred can clearly tell by the way her cheeks grow rosy again in the bleached white of his clinically clean room.

How _beautiful _this secret her son has always known and never shared, how beautiful, _isn't it Alfie_? Because right now Alfred is not in the hospital – he's being born and born again; he's in Oxford, meeting his friends again, riding his bike again, punting again; he's in college; he's in love; he's heartbroken; he's everything all at once, which means he's _still_ in the hospital, too. And that's all that matters to him right then. Because he _is _in the hospital, and he could care less that time is an illusion because he's stuck in this one _fragmented_ vision of his life and he has to live through it.

It's almost unfortunate because it means he will always live through it. He will never escape it. So as much as he wants to be positive and think of beautiful theories, he can't. But he doesn't say that to his mother. He doesn't explain how this is a gateway theory – how it's a gateway to knowing that if in fact he's living everything all at once over and over again, then there are deviations and in those deviations there's an Alfred that's _not_ in the hospital and never will be in the hospital. That's how alternatives work.

And he hates that. He hates _that _Alfred. But it's himself, too, so he hates himself.

Oh how he hates himself.

**17. **

The first box is the hardest to fill. But so is the last one.

Not that he gets to fill the last one. The last one is for Arthur.

In that first box, though, he deposits pictures and cards. He wraps them tightly in newspaper and even uses bubble wrap for extra care. When it doesn't fill up, he begins to dump old kisses and lingering looks. His heart he wraps with Arthur's touch, remembering the way those nimble fingers always started from bottom to top, from left to right. And after he's finished, he pulls from the shelves all of his old textbooks before deciding those would be of better use in his bag.

But instead he throws them into the trash.

They can keep existing in his past.

**18.**

One day between Spring and Summer, Alfred thinks this must be the experience of forgetting the smell of rain.

When he opens the window, all he can take in is heat, both in smell and feel. It's a scorching type of warmth that kisses his skin before biting in displeasure down his exposed torso.

"There's a heat wave," Arthur mentions as he walks into the kitchen, throwing the mail on the round table. He grabs for the lemonade pitcher, tempted to drink it straight from the container before he reminds himself of all the times he's admonished Alfred for doing the same thing. "And a drought. We should make sure we get the air conditioner fixed soon. Alfred. Alfred? Are you _still_ not speaking to me?"

There's a silence that drapes itself around the heat. It makes the air thick, too thick for even the knife in Alfred's hand as he tries to pretend he's making himself a sandwich.

Arthur knows how to be selfish. He's very good at it. Alfred is going to learn. He's going to learn because Arthur wants him to be _better_, and if Alfred's honest with himself, that's all he's ever wanted to be for Arthur: better.

**19. **

His two most important possessions become figurative.

Yes, outside of Arthur, or maybe in spite of him or because of him, he only has two things now: a ticket to London stashed away in his stack of mail and an unfinished e-mail draft eager to be sent to an English inbox.

Both are dependent on choices, except he knows that whatever choice he _still_ has to make he has _already_ made before. It's frustrating to know he now only has to live. It's painful, too, how this little piece of knowledge is not enough.

All Alfred is learning is that you can't always get what you want and that's not enough...

For years he's been yearning for Oxford. It's in his hands now - at the tip of his fingers, just waiting for him to reach out and grab it hard and never let go.

But his arms are empty. And it's just not enough anymore.

**20. **

Newton was wrong.

Reality is undivided and fixed points don't exist.

Point one and point two? That's a dimension, not time. It's a line, a continuum. Maybe that's why historians like lines? Somehow, Alfred thinks, it helps to compartmentalize the present, because, really, that's all there is and it continues _forever. _

Alfred knows this well. This is what he has been taught because Newton was wrong.

He knows there are no divisions of time. He knows this like the theory he breaths in his tutor's office, hands shaking, fingers cringing as they scribble one last equation. But his tutor tells him to take a break because time, time can wait. They can wait. The equation on the board? – It is there now, and it has been there before, and it will be there again. So, yes, it can wait.

The last ten minutes of class are spent savoring coffee. Alfred draws his lips around the cup for as long as he can; thinking that with each sip, there's one less second he has as an Oxfordian. No number of jumpers or pins or scarves will ever keep him in this moment. And maybe it's because the older gentleman can feel the anxiety sweeping through his pupil that he feels compelled to tell Alfred what he should already _know_.

"It's interesting, isn't it?" he smiles, turning to the young American. "Here you are sitting in my office. You will always be sitting there now, you know. Though in an alternative version of this moment you will not be sitting there, but perhaps on the desk, or the floor, or any number of places – maybe you are not here at all. But _here_ you will always be an Oxfordian, drinking coffee from a chipped mug. A rather interesting fact, isn't it?"

Alfred is confused.

In three minutes, he will no longer be this man's student. He will walk out of this office, perhaps never to return. He will pack his bags; he will prepare for one last trip to Paris, make a short stop in Italy and then Germany before heading back to the United States.

"Have you an extra minute or two to spare? Such a funny expression, isn't it?"

"I—I don't think so sir, but I've definitely got a minute or two"

"Good lad."

His tutor sips from his cup of tea, leaning forward. The only sound in the room is the vacant sound of a teacup hitting a saucer.

"When Einstein's lifelong friend Besso died, he wrote a letter to Besso's family. You probably already know this story. It's a favorite of mine. But Einstein wrote – do you know what he wrote, Alfred? No? Well, he wrote: "physicists believe the separation between past, present, and future is only an illusion, although a convincing one." His best friend had just passed on and still he believed that this was but an illusion, a figurative construction of society that dictated Besso was dead because somewhere in the past, which was still ever-present and, as such, also the future, there was Besso, perhaps even with his family. Certainly it's not that simple. Illusions, what not, separations still hurt, don't they? – I tend to think Einstein's faith in physics was remarkable. I am not sure it brings me any comfort. If in a moment I'm being born over and over again, well, I'm also dying over and over, all at once. And in another dimension, well, I don't exist at all, perhaps. Not very comforting, but it can be, don't you think?"

Alfred nods. He understands the theory. It's written in red ink inside his notes.

He shakes his tutor's hand one last time, promises to keep in touch.

"Goodbye sir."

"Goodbye Alfred." He stops, and then chuckles. "And hello Alfred. I'm aware it doesn't work that way, but right now we're also saying hello. It's fascinating."

Alfred nods, not particularly amused. "Yeah, it is."

Yes, he thinks. Fascinating. Time? – _There is no such separation we experience as the moment of now. There is no present, then. No future and no past. It's all fluid._ Alfred sighs. Yes, because technically Newton was wrong.

He looks at his wrist watch and curses, running for his bicycle. He dumps his books inside his backpack, dons it on and speeds away down Parks Road. Yes, technically Newton was wrong.

But somehow Newton still wins. He wins because fragments are always easier to understand.

**21. **

Contradictions.

Alfred decides he's full of them.

So does Arthur.

**22.**

'_How—how did I get here?'_

'_It would take another Earthling to explain it to you. Earthlings are the great explainers, explaining why this event is structured as it is, telling how other events may be achieved or avoided. I am a Tralfamadorian, seeing all time as you might see a stretch of the Rocky Mountains. All the time is all the time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber.'_

'_You sound to be as though don't believe in free will,' said Billy Pilgrim.*_

Alfred clears his throat, licking the tip of his index finger to turn the page. In his embrace, Arthur wriggles his nose in distaste, but chuckles at the way his boyfriend makes his voice very small and nasal again, pretending he's one of the little aliens from _Slaughterhouse-Five_.

"Do you believe in free will, Artie?" he squeaks before pressing a short kiss to the curve of Arthur's smirk.

Arthur taps his chin and licks his lips before cupping one of Alfred's cheeks, "_Only on Earth is there any talk of free will.*_ That's what a Tralfamadorian would say, isn't it?" He pauses, tracing the lines of worry pressed against Alfred's forehead. He presses a quick kiss to Alfred's lips. "I honestly don't know, love. I'd like to think so. That I chose you and you chose me. I like that, don't you? I think it's nice and comfortable. The alternative just has such opportunities to evolve into a lot of bitterness."

"I do. It's very romantic," Alfred hums his purr before pushing the book aside. "I like it even more when I think that I'm choosing you over and over and over. But I don't know. If I'm always choosing you, then I'm meant to always choose you. It has a streak of predestination to it, don't you think? That's pretty nice, too. To think that we're meant to be together..."

Arthur shrugs, trying to stifle his laugh, "Oh I don't know, darling. I don't tend to think of these things. Come to me with numbers and those sorts of things. I know nothing about aliens and time."

**23. **

Time is not fixed. It's fluid, like memories.

In a snapshot of time that neither recognizes there's an image of two young men, one walking and another riding a bicycle down a familiar cobblestone road. Neither need remember for it to have happened, to still happen, to happen in a loop like the bicycle wheels turning and turning into forever.

They exist in the flickering light of Arthur Kirkland's cigarette as he makes a choice to stop by the Oxford Union for a pint. In the reflection of the cell phone window they're frozen forever as he texts a friend to tell her where he'll be until she finishes the tutorial she's overseeing for her doctoral degree.

They exist in a single blink from Alfred F. Jones as he chooses to get a burrito instead of McDonalds. They're a vision, barely recognizable in the line spread by the red string around his pinky finger into infinity, coiling as it leads him from Broad Street into Turl Street and one sharp right turn into Ship Street then straight for Frewin Court. It is this one line that pulls him away from Broad Street and the rest of Cornmarket Street where his delicious burgers lay untouched. The destination would have been the same, except now that the choices are not, it is these choices that will remain suspended in time, all the time.

Yes, yes, because time is relative, but destiny sometimes seems fixed in the irony of its impending perpetual cycle.

**24.**

"Five years, Alfred," Arthur reminds Alfred as he brings out a few more shirts from the closet to stuff into the moving boxes. In the corner is Alfred's luggage, ready with a plane ticket strapped to the front. He tries to keep his voice from ripping through the well-composed blanket of stability he's been draping around himself for the last weeks. "You best study hard, love. I want you to skype me all the time. I don't want to hear of you partying too hard. I know how Oxbridge works, Alfred."

Alfred takes him by the hips, pressing Arthur back into his chest.

"Two years," he whispers into Arthur's ear, biting the lobe gently. He tugs at it with his teeth, chuckling. "Two years. It's nothing. Just blink your eyes and it's gone. It'll be like you're already with me."

Arthur takes in a haphazard breathe. He doesn't know why they keep pretending that it isn't over. Two years is an idealistic date that assumes Arthur will finish his own degree quickly, that he won't quit midway through the year on the sound of silence when the internet connection fails or when the phone bills stack too high. Two years is a gap that will only augment the cold on the other side of the bed. Two years is just too much and not enough.

It's a promise that after a long break, they will return to each other.

"I don't think I can do this," Arthur panics, turning to Alfred, who takes his hand in his larger one. "I can't, Alfred. Don't leave…"

"Arthur, I'm not leaving you," he reminds his boyfriend, pressing their foreheads together. "You have to remember this. Promise me you'll remember this? – Babe, time is an illusion. Remember this when you see me leave, because it is the feeling of your hand fitting perfectly in my own that I will take to remember where I am, because your breathe against my own will be the memory to remind myself why I'm alive, because your smile to me is as eternal as the sun. Arthur, even when I am not here, I will still be near you."

Arthur's throat hitches, like a hiccup left half-finished.

"And you know how I know?" Alfred smirks, pressing a kiss to Arthur's nose.

"How?"

**25. **

Because it starts with hips at an angle and finishes with them just in the same way…

Arthur groans his thanks, peppering kisses over Alfred's neck as he lies in a heap of relaxed muscles and happy afterglow in Alfred's arms. The duvet digs into him, and he presses his cheek against it, sighing happily.

Alfred simply breathes in the scent of Arthur's hair and remembers sunshine and the musk of rain.

This, he decides, is the world in his arms.

**26. **

They're singing together. It's a friendly duet, some famous pop medley neither of them really remembers, but recognizes in between old 90s boy band dances memorized to impress girls at secondary school bops and everyday auto-tune. Alfred's bicycle ride has slowed down to the twirl of an amused blonde's two-step.

Before entering the Oxford Union building, Arthur turns to his companion, giving him one last lingering look before stepping through the thick metal gate. The red brick sends its warnings, divides and conquers.

Alfred makes a sharp turn to his destination because even if he wanted to follow, Alfred doesn't have a membership card. But later as he eats his burrito and looks out towards the building from the establishment's life-size window, he thinks that there's something beautiful in their short meeting because even if he never sees this stranger again somewhere in time they're singing together over and over again. In an alternative reality, Alfred follows after him. They talk. They eat together. The possibilities are infinite.

Of course, there's also one reality in which, he's sure, they never sing together. Perhaps they don't even see each other. Maybe they never meet.

But Alfred's an optimist. He would much rather think of all the Alfreds that _do _get to meet a beautiful stranger with emerald eyes and a disheveled blonde fringe.

He dabs at his mouth and smiles to himself. He throws away his trash. And as he climbs onto his bicycle, he thinks of those Alfreds, all of them and hums a _you're welcome. _

**27. **

Elizabeta and Francis stand in the background watching as Alfred presses a soft kiss to Arthur's forehead.

Arthur reciprocates almost immediately, twining his fingers around Alfred's shirt fabric to pull him closer, so much closer until their lips meet in a frantic kiss.

Alfred's lips are dry and cool as they close lightly over Arthur's mouth, rapidly breathing in the scent of sunshine and rain that permeates all of Arthur's warmth. He nips at the red skin, somewhere between a kiss and a toothless bite in the gap of a hello and a goodbye.

The airport around them is white noise. They're coloring it with a rainbow just before they have to part and Alfred has to take the iridescent blue skies in his eyes to London, where Arthur cannot go _yet_.

When they finally step back, Alfred cups Arthur's cheek one last time. He does not whisper a goodbye. He simple makes his way to the gate, making sure not to look back, not even when he feels more than hears the way Arthur's breathe hitches in his throat as his heart hits hard at his gut. Alfred can feel it because it's the same kick in his back.

And when Alfred is gone, handing his passport to the first security checkpoint, he does not see as Elizabeta and Francis cradle Arthur in their arms, whispering soothing words into his hair. But just because he can't see it doesn't mean it hasn't happened…

**28. **

"I know because when I first laid eyes on you, I knew it wasn't a meeting, Arthur.

It was a reunion."

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>Author Note: <strong>And we're done! Yay! Now I can go crawl under a rock and make a tent with my shock blanket to survive the embarrassment. Thanks for the wonderful support, everyone. You've all been wonderful and I can only hope you're not too disappointed by the ending. A few final words, if you will give me the pleasure of reading a bit more of this note?

For some stories I do something known as **Final Week**. As you can imagine, I'll be doing it for Fragments as my way to make up for how fail I have been at making everything as fully clear as I wanted to in this story. Until **April 28, 2012** you can comment with as many questions on this story as you'd like – the questions can be geared towards me or towards any of the characters, no matter how minor or major. You can ask for deleted scenes, character profiles, and you're more than welcome to ask about word choices, the process behind writing this story, etc. You can also ask about things that were unclear. Feel free to ask the characters anything you'd like to know about their backgrounds or futures. The trick is that this isn't a free-for-all ask. The questions have to be tied to the plot in Fragments somehow – was there something you didn't understand? Why did Alfred keep his past to himself until the end? Now's the time to ask! You're also welcome to leave behind critiques, feedback, etc. And feel free to comment without questions, of course! Once the week is over, I take all of the questions into consideration and upload one last section with answers to everything – like a giant reference note. All of this will be helpful as I work on version 2.0 since I don't have a beta.

After that comes **Rebuttal Week**. You have a week again. Had a follow-up question you couldn't foresee? Didn't like how I answered your critique? Rebuttal week will demand you login to your account as I will then individually answer any lingering comments via PM. I'm very friendly, I promise, and as long as you don't curse at me, I'll still give you cookies. I'm really not overly sensitive. In other words, if you're going to tell me I suck then just do it eloquently, please?

Thanks again! – And see you all soon.


	6. Final Week Q&A

**Final Week:**

Lovelies! You are all fantastic! And all of you had the questions I expected and then some. Thank you so much for all of your comments. Let's hope I can clear things up. You might find a few extra questions here. Some people have sent extra questions via PM since ffnet will only let you give one comment per chapter. You will also find really long answers. Please don't be overwhelmed. I apologize in advanced for how ridiculously wordy I can get, but I had a lot of duplicate questions, so in hopes of combining some, I ended up having to remember to cover a little more ground to really answer everything.

Let's begin!

**Questions **

**1. Why the ½ format? **

To be honest, it had to do with presentation. I thought the story looked more aesthetically pleasing when the format was ½ because then the paragraphs looked compact and full and boxy as opposed to looking spread out and thin and short in the normal format.

(At some point I had wanted to play with the paragraph lengths so that when you turned your screen on its side, you'd be able to read the story like a graph with longer paragraphs showing the moment of highest emotional intensity. But this website doesn't lend itself to cool format.)

The story itself is short and every sentence matters. Alas, many times when we're reading, we tend to put less attention to thin paragraphs because we assume they're not as important, or just stressing something we've already read. I was afraid some of you might start skimming. But when we see block paragraphs, we have two reactions: we stop reading, we read through it, or we look for bolds and italics. I figured it'd be easiest to weed people out at the second chapter this way. Some would stop reading. Others would continue. To those that continued, did you notice how many more italics I started giving you in chapter 3?

This has to do with the way in which our brains process information. For example, did you know that you could be reading the same material online and off-line, but your brain will always exercise more areas of the brain with the off-line material? Our brains are often less likely to concentrate with online material, unless you're highly used to reading long articles online – but trust me, 80+ paged articles online can be a pain.

**2. How long did it take to write the story? – And other questions relating to the length of editing process and keeping track of timelines, etc. **

First, this is a draft. What you're seeing is not a final piece. For that matter, not all of it is the original draft, either.

The original story itself took 2 ½ weeks to write from beginning to end. It's around 25,000 words long, so barely retains the title of a short story. Some might consider it a novella, actually. There wasn't much editing, unfortunately. I didn't have time, so I had to trust that the first draft would get the point across. I did try reading it on nights when I was being a bit of an insomniac for tiny spelling mistakes, or other little things. Obviously because of my sleep-deprived state, I still missed quite a few along the way.

Many times I just kept thinking of withdrawing the story from release, which is why it took so long to put up chapters. On a night of particular frustration, I deleted the last chapter by mistake. I immediately retyped the chapter again. Still didn't like it so I took a few days and then wrote Part IV again. Then to make sure the structure I was using, the construction of the narrative, etc, actually made sense once all of it was together, I contacted a few friends and asked them to read over it to see if they could pick out all the things I'd put in there. Each of them showed different degrees of comprehension, but all agreed that there were no tricks. In fact, you could have figured out the story if you really tried in Part I and Part II. If you trusted me, as I think many of you did, then by Part II you began to see the storyline morphing, more and more until, if you really didn't get it by Part III, well, you hopefully did by Part IV. If you're interested on more about the writing process, then you'll find more information on the questions below.

**3. Did you really always have this plot in mind?/Was it a fluke?/Okay, be honest: the story just sort of ran away from you, huh?**

Typically I never know what will happen in a story until it happens. It's true I can't always give minute details of how a story will end up approaching all the ideas I have. It's true that sometimes I just write and let the story shape itself. However! HOWEVER, I can assure you _this_ was not one of those stories, and it drove me insane because I _couldn't_ let it run away from me and fully create itself if it was to have the originally intended effect. And it still ran a little beyond my capabilities. The early symmetry in chapters 1-3 and shifting time parameters should give you an idea of how crazy everything was…

So, the short answer is that yes, I always had this plot in mind.

The long answer is that this story almost didn't get written. It's actually a Frankenstein baby born from lots of different things. The _original_ idea was to write a story that I could only describe as description-on-steroids. I literally wanted to give readers a map of a location in words – create a story where there'd be so many details that people could reach out and touch places. To create the story I was envisioning, I needed artists, so I called on some of my favorite illustrators to see if they wanted some sketch practice and could draw my descriptions.

I also wanted to create a romantic comedy and I wanted to bring my original stories' team together to help beta, test, and do lots of different things, including illustrate as you see above. Typically I only call on them for BIG stuff, so you can just imagine how much of my heart I had poured into the original concept behind Fragments, which wasn't even originally called Fragments.

I went as far as writing the first chapter for a story called "The Finalist" and a couple of scenes and then pitched it to my awesome team and only one got on board… and it was not the artist. And the rest proceeded to explain why they wanted to work on something a little different called Anatomy of Hegemony. Except the illustrator also didn't get on board with _that_, but this is a tangent. Unfortunate circumstances sums it all up, lovelies.

"The Finalist", though, had Arthur as a fresher economics student and Alfred as an undergraduate physics finalist (last year student,) who tries to mentor Arthur into having some fun and, essentially, hopes to teach him how to really survive his first year. The infamous duet and bike scene you all keep asking about? – It's a nod to this original idea. There was a scene like it, only it ends with Arthur eating with Alfred because they're friends.

Personally, I really like to think that in one of those alternate universes, Alfred really was older and helped Arthur find beauty in his undergraduate years and their friendship grew into a beautiful idealistic romance. It's not the same image we get in Fragments. Still, you can see how much this story plagued me.

Now, if you mean because the beginning really doesn't seem like it would lead to that ending? – I can be a bit of a troll at times. If you read carefully, the first chapter remains particularly confined within the parameters of a linear narrative. Would you have taken me seriously if I'd thrown you into the chaos of Part III from the get-go? Probably not, which is why the structure of the story was so important and the reason why I _couldn't _show you everything, or tell you sometimes when things were happening after a while because it really was all to do with deconstructing time and our ideas of time as a linear concept. Now I'm not saying I succeeded! But I tried. And I am ever so thankful you all did read that author note in Part III and trusted me when I asked you not to panic at the first sign of chaos. Thank you for that. All a writer can ever ask – especially an amateur – is for trust. It's a beautiful relationship and really inspired me to want to make this draft as good as possible for the final version, whenever I get around to it, if ever.

**4. What inspired you to write this fic? Anything in particular? **

I think I explained some of it in the question above. Definitely, the original concept for The Finalist inspired this story.

Other than that, I would say real life. A lot of my stories, no matter how crazy the plot, have a basis in real life, which is to mean that some scenes are real, and some quotes came from people that let me use them, etc.

At the minimum, the emotions are always real. And I think in this case what inspired me to write Fragments were my emotions and were I was in that point in my life, from how I felt about my health, my love life, etc. My life moves very fast in its insanity sometimes, and I tend to use writing as a way to explore a lot of my different emotions, or quirks, etc.

It's also not uncommon for me to use theory and philosophy and metaphysics and anything else that interests me as a basis for my plot construction. So, really, Fragments was inspired by the same things that typically always inspire me, including music. :D

You're welcome to ask for an elaboration, or what scenes are real, if that's what makes you most curious. I'd just rather not blast that to the general public.

**5. What is the main reason why Alfred suddenly re-applied to Oxford? Was he not scared he would encounter the same brain condition? Why does Alfred choose Oxford as opposed to a US school – there are so many good US schools!**

I like answering things from the bottom to the top, so let's do that.

Asking why Alfred would choose Oxford as opposed to a US school is trying to make sense of his decision to go back to school as completely logical, as in the way in which you or I might pick a school to finish a career. But that's not what his decision was really about. It wasn't about getting an education so much as it was about _finishing_ something that Alfred once thought impossible – it was about overcoming barriers and restructuring a dream.

Unfortunately, we can only understand things sometimes as far as our experiences let us, which is why I'm telling all of you lovelies now that these are my thoughts, these were my feelings, but your interpretation – with enough textual evidence – is equally valid.

I think the fact that many were confused as to _why_ Oxford when it might have been cheaper or easier to go to a US university speaks to an unfortunate privilege many of us don't have in choosing where we ultimately go to school: we tend to choose what we can afford, what we can access, not where we feel we belong, or where we instantly connect with a place, which human geographers might denote as that sense of place. That is not to say these two things are mutually exclusive: with the right privilege, then you can fall in that small intersection of people that end up in both the place they can afford and the place they can call home. But my point here is that we imbue places with emotional symbolism and significance.

Places don't tend to give us significance as much as we give it to places – although obviously the right architecture can inflate that sense of importance. I think this is important, though, to understand Alfred's decision. Oxford means something to Alfred. It's as simple as that, really.

I mean, we _can_ think about it logically, if you'd like. I wrote about Oxford, not about Alfred's US University. Why would I do that? – Because that's what Alfred wanted to show Arthur, and, as a default, us as spectators. Alfred tells Arthur about Oxford. He doesn't get sick in Oxford, though. He actually finishes the year fine as the story tells us… so why does he choose to tell Arthur about Oxford? He doesn't tell him about his actual illness. He tells him he was in the hospital. (To those wondering, when? – We can assume because if Arthur is writing the story, then how would he be able to without knowing? Remember his words: "I only know half the story.") Oxford means something to Alfred. And it also means something to Arthur, too. Arthur understands the Oxford system having been an Oxonian himself. He doesn't understand why Alfred would want that for himself, but he accepts that Alfred is going to go no matter what because he knows that it's not so much about the school as it is about what Alfred always wanted and had to give up.

Alfred spent a year studying abroad there, just making the most of everything because in his plans that's where he'd envisioned being. Why he envisions himself there? Who knows? He envisions himself there before even going for a year. That's something personal only Alfred really knows and he certainly hasn't shared that with me.

Now, I think the important question is _why not before_ as opposed to why Oxford.

The point of fear is very valid. Ever been in a Doctor's office and been told you _need_ to slow down. Not as in a general suggestion, but having someone telling you that you really need to let go of what you love doing because you're over-exhausting your body? Had that feeling of getting your heart stuck in your throat, like a panic-attack a minute away before it pounds into your knees so you buckle into a chair? I think Alfred doesn't apply for a long time because there's fear there, but I don't know if it is so much about a possible relapse as it is about getting back into his old routine.

Alfred's character is hard to understand: 1) because we hear about him through Arthur and we hear about Arthur through me, so that's double-translation; 2) because his past-self, pre-illness exists in a level of achievement and competition that few of us might be familiar with, and that's problematic because our first instinct is to always try to analogize what we read with something we can understand… and 3) because we don't know his motivations. So let's look at these points! :D

1) I think we can see this during the scene with Alfred's friends. Ivan is very blunt about everything. "No more brain problems. Alfred can return to school," he says. And I think this is a good point to make: Alfred has gotten over his illness. Is there a possibility for a relapse? – The experiences I based it on and the situation/illness I was looking into dictates that it's unlikely, considering he would now have better tools to deal with the original causes. I based it on real life people, and I also based it off some of my early neuroscience major before I switched into a more exciting world for me. But we see this from Arthur's POV. We see him transcribing what he's experiencing and that level of confusion and being out of the loop – just listening and not understanding, and maybe that makes it more difficult to understand what changed later on…

2) I mentioned award names and his Oxford ambitions to give people an insight into the kind of person Alfred was – as in, we're mentioning that he'd already built some organizations by age 19, won an international big name award, etc, etc. Accepting the context of Alfred's success without trying to analogize it with our own experiences is key, but so very hard. I'm not a fan of analogizing experiences, pain, happiness, etc. Each person's context is special and unique and by asserting that we give people a level of respect and their emotions validity. So I think the problem is that Alfred's not supposed to be relate-able, but we still try to relate.

It's what makes us so beautifully human – you're all very empathetic people, and this shows it. That's a beautiful thing, lovelies, but also deeply intriguing for me because I did find it fascinating how many people would say they found Alfred relate-able as opposed to Arthur, which I thought was really interesting because Arthur's writing about a genius fallen, someone he can't understand half the time. Arthur's working to make it day to day. Alfred? – We can infer he's getting help from somewhere. Arthur is choosing to go into a profitable career as opposed to what he might love because he wants to work with the sobering reality of his employment prospects. Alfred? Alfred dreams and feels almost entitled. Arthur works for half a year to get into a graduate school. Alfred? He studies for a few weeks and makes it to Oxford. This is not to say Arthur isn't smart. He is. I don't think Alfred would love him if he wasn't. But it's intriguing that we all (including myself) tried to understand Alfred… felt connected to Alfred… and not to Arthur, who was probably more accessible in his fears and frustrations than a twenty-something with major investments, choosing to live in lower standards and with a past of excellence the like few of us would fully understand.

I think in a way this story gives it all to you. But at the same time it doesn't work under fair parameters. Nothing is said explicitly, and I trust you're all brilliant to read beyond what is there – between the lines because in the case of Fragments, what was said outright was only half as important as what was tucked in between sentences. Details, then, counted for a lot.

3) Expanding on the above… we know very little about Alfred's motivations. We know he was once highly driven. But we can't understand all that moves him. We know he was extremely competitive and was in a pretty high level of competition and stress, which led to his problem. So I tend to think he was afraid – but maybe more afraid of having to go back to that _type_ of life style… I think Alfred chooses to live a certain way because it's the opposite to where he was in the past.

Yes, there's that element of fear very present. But I think Fragments is a different kind of love story. It's not an ideal love story. It is a story about two people that love each other, but can't commit to trusting each other at first because they have so much baggage from their past. And I think just like Arthur wanted to be _better_ for Alfred, wanted security for himself, well, Alfred, too, wanted to be better for Arthur, but he wanted to do it under his own terms. For Alfred, then, being better wasn't about making more money or buying a bigger house or anything substantially material, which is why he tells Arthur it was all such a struggle for hm. For Alfred, being better for Arthur meant _finally_ letting go of his past, trusting Arthur with his present, and, well, looking to overcome his fears – he wanted to be braver.

You have to almost respect that from Alfred, to go from refusing to have agency to suddenly exerting it 110%.

**6. Is this story focused on just one variant of reality, or are some of the fragments talking about Al and Art in different realities?**

Actually, there's only two things meant to make you question if we're ever in one variant of reality or not, and that's quite intentional. I wanted to mention the cats – only one of you picked up on the changing number of cats, I think? None of the cats disappeared and were all there by the end, but for a while in the middle, one of the cats went sort of missing, didn't he? And reason is because I figured if someone was paying attention to the cats, when at the end they saw that one seen in another possible variant of reality, well, they might look back and – if they wanted to – create their own theory on how many variants there are…

There is one scene where it is very questionable whether we're still in one variant of reality or not, and that's intentional to play a little with your brains, but otherwise everything is quite firmly set (or there's enough evidence to assert this) in one variant of reality. That I can guarantee if it will give you a little peace of mind.

The questionable scene is the bike scene. If you thought there was another scene with questionable possibilities, bring it to my attention, please. I'd love to see your analysis. It'd make me happy.

Alas, for all you or I know, the bike scene isn't an alternate reality at all, but real, because if you pay attention to the timelines (there is some greater detail about time in relation to when Alfred and Arthur were in Oxford and _when_ they left, too) it could work…

Someone PMed me asking about the timeline crossing together sometime back, and had interesting ideas on the matter. A shout-out to the adorable super shy reviewer that had patience with my imperfect French!

But this question is up to you as a reader, and how well you kept track of timelines or how carefully you read everything. There's a lot more than the explicit in this story, I'm afraid. :)

**7. Th-They do get back together right? I'm not sure if this question is valid since it goes beyond this story, but I was just wondering if they do or don't... I really hope they do!**

Alfred originally wanted me to show you all a beautiful scene involving a very happy Alfred walking down Parks Road holding hands with Arthur. He'd also wanted me to show you all another beautiful scene involving Alfred and Arthur walking down the cobblestone road behind Christ Church College (the Alice in Wonderland College) with Arthur carrying a red-headed toddler in his arms and telling her the story of Alice in Wonderland. Alas, I put my foot down and said, "Alfred! That answers nothing! – It could be an alternate universe." And then I woke up from my dream, drank tea, and read about 500 pages worth of homework.

And now that I have trolled a bit by implanting those visions in your mind…

The question is totally valid because the answer is technically in the story so don't even worry about it! Thanks for asking. Many had the same question, and yours is probably the most inclusive of what they want to know. :D

Lovelies, remember:

"It's a promise that after a long break, they will return to each other."

(A—and what about all the stuff I added about destiny next to tim—time… it wasn't just to make it sound pretty. None of you paid attention? I—it's fine. I'm going to go cry in my corner. I'll be fine. I will. Please eat these complimentary e-cookies as I type the rest…)

Of course, to those of you that don't want them to get back together, well, you can imagine that somewhere along the line in those years of long-distance loving, something went wrong, but that's kind of pessimistic and really sad, you guys. So let's just stick with the "promise to return to each other" and think that Arthur finished his degree, went off to England after two years to join Alfred in Oxford and they lived together until the end of Alfred's degree. And why the hell not? While abroad, they got married, because they can. And Sazzles ate part of the small reception cake. There.

(And in the meanwhile they kept their relationship going strong thanks to skype, naughty web times, and Christmas visits.)

**8. Why did Artie choose America to go to after he dropped out of Oxford?**

B—because if he hadn't he wouldn't have met Alfred? – In some other reality there was an Arthur choosing to _not_ go to America. Okay, that's a cop-out answer.

Personally, I think he chose America because of the relative ease with which it would mean getting away from Western Europe and the United Kingdom without putting himself in an absolutely foreign location and situation. In terms of acquiring a visa, the monetary conversion, and facility of language mobility, I think the US was a better option. Some might be thinking, "but there's Canada and Australia, too!" But a ticket to Australia would have been very expensive. Canada has a large landmass, but I don't think Arthur felt very inspired by Canada. His reasons for moving had to do with finding a place that would inspire him to be a writer, and during those early months in the United States, Arthur travels a lot, just looking for excitement and adventure and things to write. And I think the United States is big enough and still considered exciting enough for people that don't live within its borders.

**9. When Al walked into the bar for the first time and saw Artie, did he recognise him as the blonde haired, emerald eyed stranger he'd met from his past?**

Your interpretation is just as good as mine.

It's kind of hard to tell because first we need to settle whether you believe that the bike scene was an alternate universe or not. If you do, then you'd have to settle whether that beginning section is also set in an AU, or if it isn't, then is it just a _feeling _of recognition, like an inexplicable déjà vu? Either meaning is completely acceptable, especially considering the ending. It could be Alfred believes it was a reunion because somewhere they'd met before, or they really had met before, which is also incredibly likely.

If we look at the scene in question, there are certainly hints to validate your hypothesis, maybe in the opposite direction – was it Arthur that recognized Alfred?

""Hello sir," he coughed into his hand, eyes glued to his shined shoes. "May I interest you in a booth seat? Perhaps one with a window-view?""

Why is Arthur looking at his shoes? – Why does he not look at Alfred directly? Is he trying to hide his face?

""He's probably just a broke college student just waiting for the storm to pass," Arthur made his excuses."

Why is Arthur so sure Alfred must be college-aged? Or affiliated to a college? Is it because he's young? But then, why a college student and not simply broke or something else? For that matter, it could be Arthur just thought Alfred was handsome, or maybe he remembered him in some way.

""Oi," he leaned against the tabletop of the bar, sliding with perfect suavity and just the right pinch of annoyance next to the young blonde, who geared his large blue eyes at him, "not that you've been much of an annoyance, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to either order or leave."

The level of bluntness seemed to catch the young man off guard.

"Oh," he mouthed, still gaping a bit before pushing away from the bar – one hand pressed tightly against the wood — "uh, yeah, I guess I should be on my way now. I lost track of time, I think. Sorry, uh… oh, you have a nametag, cool. Arthur." He chuckled, scratching at the nape of his neck. "Thanks for the water," he shrugged on his bomber jacket, slipping on a thick hood."

^ Maybe they recognized each other? The first time Alfred sees Arthur, he flushes. It could be he's just embarrassed he hasn't bought anything, or he recognizes Arthur, or both. This is probably not helpful for you, but I just really want to stress that this story was written intentionally to make sure the reader had as much freedom to hypothesize and analyze as they'd like. That's not to say the story is complicated, or needs huge analysis to be understood, but that I posit everything here as _probable _because I believe the point of the story was to put a spotlight on probability and destiny, etc, etc. So I hope the information above gives you some ammunition to take this simple narrative and give it beautiful meaning, like maybe Alfred was right and they were just destined, or maybe it was a lot of luck and Alfred was just reassuring Arthur…

**10. Was the Alfred-and-Arthur-singing-90s-pop-music-while-strolling set in the same reality as the main story (i.e. they met before Alfred had to quit Oxford and Arthur left for America) or was it an alternate reality?**

Clarification: Alfred didn't quit Oxford. Alfred studied in Oxford for a year as a visiting student. He was a US college student and at the end of the year went back. He quit before he could finish his final year of university. Arthur quit Oxford when he was doing his master's in creative writing.

The answer to this cannot come from me, but from you. It depends on how you read the story. I discussed this scene in some detail in the questions above, but the summarized answer is that a) the timeline does work out that Alfred and Arthur could have met in Oxford, albeit with some tweaking, and this could just be Alfred thinking as a physics student, and b) it could more likely be an alternate reality with Alfred, again, being a geeky physics student and not knowing, which then impacts how you might read different scenes in the short story.

Personally, I like to think it's both – it's a universe where the timeline is the same, and then diverges at that point in time. But maybe I like to think like this because of the fact that the scene is a happy nod of acknowledgement at The Finalist and my own life (for information on The Finalist and this scene, look at question 3).

**11. The story Arthur writes in his little black book - am I misinterpreting it, or is that story the entire story in this fanfiction? Arthur writing the 12 in the book at the end of Section 11 and Section 12 consisting of his monthly budget is throwing me for a loop...**

That's correct. What Arthur starts writing is _his_ half of Fragments. He tells Alfred distinctly he only knows _half _the story in the first part of Part IV. The fact we read a narrative that shows us some of what Alfred went through lets us know that Alfred did have a talk with Arthur but we don't get to see it because it would have been superfluous. The second part of Part IV can be thought of us either written by Arthur trying to understand Alfred, which is why everything is so chaotic, or as Alfred typing out his last thoughts to Arthur and leaving them for him to make sense of in his final draft, which is quite fitting seeing as Fragments: A Love Story is a draft – mine.

**12. Why did Kiku act so upset during Alfred's mini-reunion with his classmates? Was he uncomfortable with the public display of affection? Bitter that his friend had seemingly given up on a promising future? Jealous of Arthur's relationship with Alfred? All of the above?**

All of the above for the win! 7 No. Okay, not all of the above. Just one. But all those reasons are so good it makes me want to write an AU in which Kiku is Alfred's ex-lover and … where was I? Oh right.

Kiku only acts upset before he needs to leave, and that only comes _after_ Alfred and Ivan have that exchange about his past illness and school.

It's quite simple, and I think it has to do with Kiku not knowing what to make of Alfred's reaction. On the one hand, I think it does have to do with his disappointment that Alfred has given up on a promising future, and maybe his own understanding that Alfred's childish display showcases a lot of fear. I think it also has to do with Kiku not wanting to get involved in re-introducing Alfred to societal pressures: he knows his friend is brilliant, but he's not going to be the one to push Alfred back to school if he doesn't want to even if he understands it is a good idea.

I don't think Kiku is jealous of Arthur, much less of his relationship with Alfred. He seems to be the nicest in the whole group toward Arthur.

Kiku is talented, and he follows a family legacy. His father thinks Alfred is talented. But Alfred is not using his talents. It's difficult for Kiku to understand, like it is difficult for Ivan. But unlike Ivan, Kiku is not so blunt. So he takes his leave, not being impolite because he has somewhere to be, but refusing to even broach the subject with Alfred. In a way, Kiku is both a good and bad friend in this… but we can't know all his motivations because that half seems to fall on Arthur's symmetry-half of the story, so we're only seeing him through Arthur's eyes, and in Arthur's eyes (someone that doesn't know Kiku well) he's pouty and distraught, not concerned and uncomfortable.

**13. Why 'Fragments' as the title? (Other than the way it is written, and the time skips, of course)**

_Fragments_ as the title has actually nothing to do with the format. ^^

_Fragments_ refers to how we see time. We see time as fragmented. We only think of time as being divided by specific events with specific end-times. The skips certainly help give greater insight into the narrative. To quote myself on that:

"The first chapter remains particularly confined within the parameters of a linear narrative. Would you have taken me seriously if I'd thrown you into the chaos of Part III from the get-go? Probably not, which is why the structure of the story was so important and the reason why I _couldn't _show you everything, or tell you sometimes when things were happening after a while because it really was all to do with deconstructing time and our ideas of time as a linear concept. Now I'm not saying I succeeded! But I tried. And I am ever so thankful you all did read that author note in Part III and trusted me when I asked you not to panic at the first sign of chaos."

But to be honest, _**Fragments**_as a title had to do with the irony of physics conceptualization of time and the fact Arthur (and all of us) don't view time as an eternal continuum that happens all at once. Instead, we view time as fragmented bits we call the present and the past.

Slaughterhouse-Five has characters that continually can only explain these differences in time by alluding to the fact that humans have fragmented vision. In this case, the structure was a visual cue, but it wasn't the reason behind the title. The title was inspired by Slaughterhouse-five and Alfred's physics.

**14. Why did Alfred not tell Arthur about the past for so long?**

Lovely question, asking why Alfred waits, not if Alfred shares his story. I adore you, reviewer. Make yourself known to me so we can co-write beautiful story babies.

In my point of view, it falls into two categories: 1) poor communication, and 2) thinking it wasn't important to mention it. I think it also falls into Arthur and Alfred reasons.

I think something that I struggled with as this story came to an end is that it's not really an end. I'm not supposed to give you what will happen because, well, I don't know. I can make assumptions that are equally as valid as anyone else's… I always tell my readers: I see as far as you see, and I come to terms with it when you do. So here's my take.

Real life, moments like the ones in _Fragments _don't really get a nice packaged ending. Alfred and Arthur always had communication problems. This story worked to highlight that, but it wasn't realistic that they would fix those problems over night, so when Alfred leaves, those problems are still there, really. They'll have to fix those communication problems eventually and I think long-distance will either help them resolve those problems by force, or accentuate them enough that the relationship will fail.

As to my second point: I think it falls under the 'well, you didn't ask…' rule for Alfred, which is quite true. There's this inherent assumption that it should fall to Alfred to be responsible for telling Arthur, but Arthur never asks Alfred about his life, either. Go back to the first 3 chapters. He doesn't ask until the end. Communication is a two-way street. People don't always offer information freely, especially because what needs to be mentioned to some is something that's not quite as interesting to another. There's a talent in extraction, or else there wouldn't be secret agents, right? – So that's not a good example, but my point is that Arthur doesn't share many of his own feelings until they're too much to hold onto. It's part of that communication fail that further keeps Alfred from telling Arthur much of anything. In Alfred's mind what matters is what is happening _now_ – and now he has Arthur, so why should Oxford or hospitals or anything like that matter?

And, really, Arthur assumes a lot of things, which doesn't make communication any easier. The romantic in him seems attached by the hip to that more pragmatic half of his personality to create this awkward combination that allows him to take in what he sees about Alfred's meager life and just say 'this is NOT okay!' and go into 'I must save you!' mode.

There's this beautiful poem by a spoken word poet Sarah Kay and in it she says: "**_And "Baby," I'll tell her "don't keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, _**_you're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him."_ I think this is a really great way of thinking about Arthur in Fragments and a reflection of this relationship in general because it's all about two people that love each other so much, they just want to see the other happy, but instead of realizing they're each others' happiness as they are, they assume they have to become or give something else to make that happen. It's both a confidence and perception issue, and it just gets to be too much…

I think in a way we all do this at some point – not with boys, sometimes, but I think when we're young, there's still this idealistic part of us that wants to hold the world in our hands, save it from itself by keeping it from falling through the netting of our fingertips… and there's nothing wrong with that, except sometimes we get hurt and the bigger lesson is in how we learn to get back up after life has gutted our hearts and broken our kneecaps, you know?

**15. Why did Alfred not tell Arthur about everything?**

Good question. I think I already answered this earlier. Can I quote myself?

"[Arthur] tells Alfred distinctly he only knows _half _the story in the first part of Part IV. The fact we read a narrative that shows us some of what Alfred went through lets us know that Alfred did have a talk with Arthur but we don't get to see it because it would have been superfluous."

**16. Is there any pattern for reading Fragments in a chronological order? **

There is a pattern. And this I will take with me to the grave! xD It's easier in the beginning, not so easy near the end because then you have to find the pattern in the entire story as opposed in only the specific parts.

Alas, if I told you, then it would defeat the purpose of us trying to deconstruct time. (Or maybe I'm just lazy and explaining it from my head to paper would be painful?) I think a good tip on reading Fragments, or re-reading it, maybe, is to look at my comments on how I structured things to try to deconstruct time (which wasn't successful, but let's pretend…) found in 'Why Fragments as the title' and 'Did you always envision this plot' (or something like that).

**17. What actually is Alfred's brain disorder? **

Oh dear. I knew someone would ask.

As an ex-neuroscience student, I'll tell you right now it isn't an exact condition with a name, or set of specific symptoms. (For that matter, just as a response to your comment about how common/general the symptoms I used were… well, symptoms can be generic: they're what a patient personally feels and can pinpoint to a doctor, which tend to be changes in mood, or headaches, or pain and fatigue and nausea, etc. This is not the same thing as a sign, which is typically noticed by other people, including a doctor, and which helps bring the general symptoms down to a diagnosis. On that note, some symptoms can also be signs.) Alfred's situation was based more around experiences I've seen in others. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I'll go into how I _created_ this experience for Alfred.

The English language only has one word for stress fatigue and that's, well, stress fatigue, which can trigger Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS), which also has different versions with their own triggers and definitions.

In the French language and in parts of South America the word surmenage exists to describe a similar type of exhaustion that makes the body rebel to the point of hospitalization, many times because of stress, but mostly from 'too-much-focus.' Today more practitioners would consider it CFS, but the term surmenage is used more around the concept of stress fatigue, typically now as a popular reference to a culture of too much stress. Today, we also don't talk about surmenage as a medical condition so much as a descriptor of high stress, but if you look it up in university journals, you'll find some interesting articles from the 1980s and 1990s written in Spanish and French that differentiated it from "just" stress fatigue or CFS, almost like an intermediate. So in a continuum, this would be "super stress."

On that note, the history of the term surmenage and its utilization among psychology circles is complex and has evolved to the point of no longer being used by more modern scholastic journals, so, again, remember that I didn't use a set brain disorder for Alfred, nor did I ever say he had a tumor. I always attributed his illness to stress. As such, I would suggest taking my explanation more as a basic documentation of changing terminology and the ways in which symptoms are very similar from one illness to another at times as opposed to anything else.

Just in case, to clarify, this is not to say that in the US and in other languages we don't recognize the effects of stress, but that this was what I was thinking of in the case of creating Alfred's almost mythical condition (mythical as in not particularly real, though based on real life symptoms because stress and fatigue and the pain from it is very much real.)

The case of surmenage I was thinking about affected an economics major, actually. And I decided to call it surmenage because this is how she attributes it when she tells her story. (And who am I to rewrite someone's personal narrative?)

So, psychologically, the concept of surmenage is based on the meaning of the word, which refers to being 'submerged' under work, under stress, under the focus of X-thing. So it isn't just stress, but could come from even repetitive and habitual activities that lead to fatigue, which is why I chose it because I felt it important to note that while Alfred was under a lot of stress, it was less the stressful aspect of his situation and more the constant amplification of work that lead to a very physical break-down. In this way, we can really akin it to burn out.

(Burn-out is not just a histrionic term, ladies and gents. Burn-out is very real, and quite severe for many young organizers, campaigners, and activists like Alfred seems to be in this story. Not all get physically sick, but some suffer through great socio-emotional consequences.)

On that note, I personally think we don't tend to think of the problems stress can bring about very often. We know stress if bad, but we seldom consider how serious it can really be…

To give you an idea, high levels of stress can lead to false-positives for Lupus examinations (for that matter, some of the symptoms also fit the Lupus description, don't they? – Except Lupus is an autoimmune disorder, not a brain disorder: fatigue, aches, pains, depression, headaches). High levels of stress can cause a level of anxiety and lead to depression that destabilized chemicals in the brain to the point where it isn't uncommon for doctors to recommend medication for 2 months to re-stabilize the body's hormones, chemicals, and more. And it is usually the same medication used for anxiety, or depression.

We tend to think stress, much like the word burn-out, is a really fun word to throw around when we feel we're in over our heads. To be fair, though, some people have really low stress thresholds, and others have an extremely high one, which might actually be bad because of the high level of further duress the body must endure to prove its resistance.

But back to my original point: the case I was thinking about involved an incredibly bright person literally ending up in the hospital with her face distorted. She experienced muscle-spasms, a bad case of convulsions, constant nausea, much like Alfred. The anxiety of leaving education and everything behind only led to greater stress and greater symptoms. She took a break for two years, went back to school, and is now getting a PhD.

So, in other words, the symptoms are highly vague because the body responds quite violently to the level of repetitive stress we're talking about in Alfred's case, but can also react very differently from that of anyone else experiencing fatigue.

However, another case I was thinking about involves a case of childhood pseudo-epilepsy. What this refers to is a condition similar to epilepsy in children, as in the symptoms are similar, but the causes are unrelated to the natural synapses of the brain and have a connection to _something_ extra in the body.

I tend to think Alfred might have suffered from convulsions as a child – whether due to epilepsy or not, because his condition sounds very much like the return of a pre-existing condition making itself known through high levels of stress. It also made sense for me to cite his condition appearing during stressful times because in some studies, emotional stress was reported by 25-55% of people prior to seizures, making it one of the leading causes.

If it was a pre-existing condition he just wasn't aware of as a child, then it would make sense that it was treated until it was under control again.

For that matter, though, stress-induced convulsions are not mythological, and like the PhD student's example, it could have appeared out of nowhere. The EEG exams for them are interesting for sure.

I hope this answers your question, but if you want a follow-up medical chat, well, I can definitely give that a try, though I'm not sure I'd be very helpful.

**18. The books. Why did they fight over the books? Why didn't they fight over the books? Just, the books. Tell me about the books. **

You want titles? – Pretty please don't make me go find the titles again.

So, the books were ridiculously symbolic. This answer is going to be so short…

The fight had little to do with books or space, and everything to do with poor communication. Arthur had no idea why these books meant something to Alfred, and he remains confused the entire time. The idea is that by telling Arthur his half of the story and letting Arthur write it, Alfred is giving him insight into what those books really meant: his past, what he had to give up and couldn't…

Some asked why I didn't show them fighting over the books. The fight itself wasn't important. If you were writing a book about yourself, would you want to show your petty fights? Probably not. But what was important is that the fight was there because there was prevailing tension and so much of it that it finally flooded over something that seemed insignificant but wasn't. Maybe I'm along in that experience, but sometimes when relationships are really charged, all emotions come toppling out over the least expected exchanges and events.

**19. Was Arthur attracted to Alfred? What is Arthur's issue? He's sorta clingy!**

Oh, totally! Agreed 100%. Arthur is clingy. Arthur's problem, though, is not so uncommon.

I already answered this, sort of, which is why I will now quote myself. :)

"The romantic in him seems attached by the hip to that more pragmatic half of his personality to create this awkward combination that allows him to take in what he sees about Alfred's meager life and just say 'this is NOT okay!' and go into 'I must save you!' mode.

There's this beautiful poem by a spoken word poet Sarah Kay and in it she says: "**_And "Baby," I'll tell her "don't keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, _**_you're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him."_ I think this is a really great way of thinking about Arthur in Fragments and a reflection of this relationship in general because it's all about two people that love each other so much, they just want to see the other happy, but instead of realizing they're each other's' happiness as they are, they assume they have to become or give something else to make that happen. It's both a confidence and perception issue, and it just gets to be too much…

I think in a way we all do this at some point – not with boys, sometimes, but I think when we're young, there's still this idealistic part of us that wants to hold the world in our hands, save it from itself by keeping it from falling through the netting of our fingertips… and there's nothing wrong with that, except sometimes we get hurt and the bigger lesson is in how we learn to get back up after life has gutted our hearts and broken our kneecaps, you know?"

**20. Why Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer (and Summer!)? **

It's just to show that everything happened in a year. They're relationship was ridiculously fast!* It also was easy to be able to say 'five years ago' and because it was in a specific season, it still gave you some concept of time. I figured taking _all_ measures of time away would have made me look crazy.

*Ahem, I'm not going to lie – this was me trolling a bit and trying to make a statement in poor-taste about how weird it is when you have those fictions or love stories that have everything happen in relatively short-time, though, to be fair, I once wrote a romantic comedy that happened in the span of a week because the main character had amnesia. But to be fair, it was supposed to be comedy, and it was also trying to point out some problematic aspects of consent, and the main character and her boyfriend already knew each other. Compared to that, a year is totes acceptable, especially for a predestined couple. Right?

**21. What does Arthur really want to be? – An economist? A writer? **

He wants to _be_ married. To Alfred. And have lots of cat babies. :D

Oh gosh. Why are you still paying attention to me, darlings? Right, because I promised answers. My humor gets progressively less humorous the more tired I am, I'm afraid to admit.

First things first: career changes are very common, dears.

I asked Arthur, and he seemed very adamant about making it known that he probably really wanted to be neither. Loving a subject matter does not imply you want to make it your career. In Arthur's case, he studied economics as an undergraduate, and we are to assume he was very conflicted about his education. An Oxford education is very streamline and classes are pretty settled so he wouldn't have had much room to choose from other subjects. Changing subjects would probably have been hard for him, too. This is not to mean he might not have enjoyed his education or the subject, but that maybe he wasn't fully fulfilled by it, which is why he decided he'd try for writing – something he seemed to enjoy a lot more.

But a Master's in Creative Writing in Oxford was also a bit too streamlined for his taste. In a way, I think Arthur was looking for a different education style, or just more freedom, which is probably why he chose to leave and travel somewhere different.

When was considering going back to school (mostly because he decided being a writer was too idealistic) he chose to try for a post-graduate degree in economics because that's what he had done before. Also, economists have pretty safe career prospects, which I think really appealed to Arthur's more pragmatic side.

I think Arthur likes to write. I think he enjoys it like a lot of us do, but maybe doesn't feel like he has the talent, or the drive to take it further. Francis and Arthur's conversation gives us some insight into the fact Arthur doesn't feel like writing is what he wants to do anymore – not to the level he'd considered it before. But who knows? – Arthur needs to decide what he wants to _be_. Though, really, philosophically speaking, phrasing a question that way gives me a serious complex. So, I think Arthur needs to decide what he wants to do next. In the meanwhile, he seems very poised to challenge himself to get his degree in economics, and later? – Who knows!

Unfortunately for Arthur, it takes a lot more planning to not have a plan than to have one (there's a bit of philosophy for you).

**22. What happens to Arthur after those five years?**

Oh boy. You guys really want an answer, huh? I will give you this, but not tell you if it is set in our timeline or another.

Arthur graduates with his Master's. He returns to England to be with Alfred and shortly before Alfred graduates, they convince Arthur's sister to become a surrogate for their first child, a little girl.

In the interim, Arthur publishes Fragments. He adds many chapters and changes much of the narrative until it is no longer anything akin to his first draft and resembles more a fictional novel. It receives a nice level of acclaim as an introductory novel, but wins no awards and sells little compared to his publisher's expectations. He decides he was right all along and was not meant to be a writer of fiction.

Alfred is offered the opportunity to continue his research in Oxford, where he pursues his post-graduate opportunities and lives with Arthur in a flat in Summertown. They have one more child, a little boy. Both their children are red-heads. For a time, Arthur is a stay-at-home parent.

During his time as a stay-at-home parent, though, Arthur begins to take on some free-lance jobs, starting local before he begins to make some connections thanks to Alfred's role as an Oxford tutor and researcher.

Arthur starts with what he knows. He mostly writes about economics, but soon starts a career in investigative journalism, in which he likes to document on the history of anthropological economics. (He's very good about understanding human economic behavior.) He writes books filled with real-life narratives, exploring all the things that once disappointed him about the economic system and what fills him with hope. His most successful book focuses on the importance of a living wage, and the income-gap in the United Kingdom. And, eventually, when he has earned security as a writer, he begins to write different types of narratives, exploring other facets of his life – from his early travels to parenthood. He finds that stories have power and meaning, because people have meaning and power, and he can't think of something more beautiful than telling a story that's _real_.

**23. Character Profiles.**

There was a request for character profiles, but the person never mentioned for who they wanted the character profiles so…. ^^

**Did I miss anything?**

I don't think I missed any questions posted before Saturday, but if I did, someone please let me know? I'll answer you via PM.

Now that Final Week is over, you have about a week to reply, or follow-up if you feel you need to, but _only_ if you asked a question during Final Week and want more clarification for your question, or didn't like a specific reply. To those of you that replied after Final Week, I did my best to incorporate answers within the questions I did have, but I might not have been too successful.

So, Rebuttal Week ends May 20. I will answer you via PM if you take advantage of the Rebuttal Week.

Thanks again for following me in this journey. Hope you have a lovely week!

-CMF


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